Cfje  library 

of  ttje 

tHntoersittp  of  J^ortfj  Carolina 


©fjisi  6oofe  toauS  presented 

J  M 


NORTH  CAROLINA 
School  of  Library 
Science 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/youthskeepsakeneOOunse 


IIW  YORK, 

J,  C. KIKE  K.  9  lb  ANN  STREET, 
1834 


YOUTH'S  KEEP-SAKE ; 


NEW-YEAR,  CHRISTMAS, 


BIRTH-DAY  PRESENT, 

FOR  BOTH  SEXES. 


NEW- YORK: 
J.  C.  RIKER,  15  ANN-STREET, 


INTRODUCTION. 


At  the  present  enlightened  period*  when  every  depart- 
ment of  literature  has  a  thousand  votaries,  who  devote 
unsparingly,  their  wealth,  energy,  industry,  and  talent,  at 
the  intellectual  shrine ;  it  were,  perhaps,  a  presumption 
to  profess  to  have  discovered  an  especial  excellence,  pecu- 
liarly calculated  to  promote  any  branch  of  mental  cultiva- 
tion. But  though  the  multitude  of  competitors  in  the 
literary  arena,  preclude  a  possibility  of  an  author  or  pub- 
lisher claiming  transcendant  merit  for  any  offering  sub- 
mitted to  the  reading  world,  it  may  still  be  very  possible 
to  devise  a  work,  so  precisely  adapted  to  a  given  object, 
that  all  its  pretensions  may  not  only  be  sustained,  but  th&t 
it  may  be  made  honorable  mention  of  among  its  compeers. 

Books  for  the  perusal  of  the  youthful  abound  in  all  the 
land  ;  some  good,  some  indifferent,  some  so  foolish,  that 
the  human  intellect  is  degraded  both  in  tbe  authorship 
and  reading.    And  in  writing,  or  compiling  a  work  de- 


iv 


INTRODUCTION. 


signed  to  have  an  influence,  and  leave  its  impress,  on  the 
character  yet  unformed,  and  the  mind  yet  uninstructed, 
there  are  many  errors  to  be  avoided,  many  essentials  to  be 
attained. 

The  original  articles  in  this  work,  having  been  written 
expressly  for  it,  by  several  gentlemen  who  have  long  been 
before  the  public  in  capacity  of  writers,  it  is  hoped,  will  meet 
the  same  degree  of  approbation  that  has  been  so  often 
awarded  to  other  emanations  from  the  same  sources. 

This  little  volume  is  now  commended  to  the  patronage 
of  an  intelligent  and  generous  community,  without  further 
comment  or  apology,  hoping  that  its  faults  will  be  excused 
by  all,  and  its  suitableness  to  the  end  proposed  be  quite  ap- 
parent. 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 


Introduction   -      -  3 

The  Mask.   By  Mrs.  Sargant   7 

A  Puzzle    20 

Jessy  of  Kibe's  Farm.    By  Miss  M.  R.  Mitford              ...  25 

Emily   36 

Motto  for  the  Bible.  By  J.  Montgomery,  Esq.  37 
Tale  of  the  Christmas  Holidays.    By  the  Author  of  "  the  Flower  show" 

and  "the  Black  Linn."  -      -      -  38 

On  Visiting  the  Sylvan  Cottage,  inhabited  by  Miss  Hannah  More  and 

her  Sisters,  1791.    By  Anna  Seward   50 

The  Morning  Song.    By  Allan  Cunningham     -             -      -      -  52 

Anecdotes  of  South  African  Baboons.   By  Thomas  Pringle,  Esq.       -  54 

Imitation  of  Claudius,  Morning  Lesson.    By  John  Bowring,  Esq.      -  59 

A  Little  Boy's  Letter  from  London.    By  Miss  Jewsbury  62 

Children  at  Play.   By  Wm.  Howitt   71 

The  Lost  Girl ;  or,  Indian  Gratitude   73 

The  Anemonie  and  the  Carnation   By  Edward  Walsh,  M.  D.  -      -  82 

The  Blow  Forgiven    86 

The  Nut  Cracker.    By  Miss  Jewsbury.   91 

The  Deserted  Village ,  or  The  Confiding  Boy.   By  Miss  Hofland     -  94 

Frank  and  his  Kite.    By  James  Bird,  Esq.   107 

Home   112 

Stanzas    123 

The  Nutting  Party.   By  Miss  Hofland   124 

The  Recall.    By  Mrs.  Hemans    138 

Lines  written  on  the  last  leaf  of  a  Friend's  Album.    By  Miss  Mitford  139 


vi 


CONTENTS. 


Page, 

The  Two  Soliloquies ;  or,  The  Idle  Boy,  and  the  Idle  Boy  become  a 

Man.    By  Miss  Jewsbury   -  141 

The  Quarries  under  Paris   144 

Hebe.    By  Frederick  Muller   150 

Children  of  the  Lake   152 

The  Stream's  not  deep  Llerena   164 

The  Birds  and  the  Beggar  of  Bagdat.    By  Miss  Jewsbury        -       -  165 

The  wind  in  a  Frolic.    By  William  Howitt   173 

Story  of  the  Two  Pigeons ;  or,  To  oblige  quickly,  is  to  oblige  twice. 

By  Miss  Jewsbury  -176 

Pass  of  the  Green  Mountains    183 

Epitaph  Extraordinary       -   198 

The  Bereaved  Parent   199 

Childhood   -  201 

The  Broken  Pitcher.    By  Richard  Howitt  203 

Domestic  Chit-Chat ;  or,  A  Word  to  the  Injured.    By  Mrs.  Hofland  205 

Lines.    By  Miss  J.  E.  Roscoe   -  ••.   .*  215 


LIST  OF  ENGRAVINGS, 


Vignette  Title  Page  

Emily  and  her  Kitten   36 

The  Lost  Girl           -  -  78 

Home    121 

Children  of  the  Lake         -   156 

Llerena  Crossing  the  Brook   164 

The  Weeping  Mother  193 

Childhood   201 


7 


THE  MASIL 

,  . 

By  Mrs.  Sargant 


"  What  a  coward  you  are,  Jamie,"  cried  George  Gordon 
to  his  cousin,  as  with  his  younger  brother  and  sister  they 
were  proceeding  in  Farmer  Wilson's  light  cart  on  a  visit  to 
the  Abbey  Farm  ;  "  I  really  think  you  have  not  spirit  enough 
to  face  a  mouse.  Do  you  know,"  continued  he,  turning  to 
the  good  man  who  himself  drove  them,  "  my  cousin  Jamie  is 
the  greatest  coward  alive.  If  you  were  only  to  say  in  a 
whisper  to  him,  1  Hark  !  Jamie,  what's  that — don't  you  see 
something  move  yonder  V  he  would  turn  as  white  as  a  sheet, 
and  tremble  from  head  to  foot ;  and  if  he  was  not  too  much 
frightened,  would  run  away  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry 
him." 

"Oh  George,"  interrupted  the  little  fellow  who  seemed 
about  ten  years  of  age,  and  whose  delicate  appearance  was 
strongly  contrasted  by  his  cousin's  robust  and  healthy  aspect; 
and  superior  height,  though  only  a  year  older,  "  I  am  not  so 


s 


THE  MASK, 


bad  as  that— I  know  I  am  not  so  brave  as  you  ;  I  wish  I  was, 
for  I  do  not  like  to  be  called  a  coward.  It  is  only  some  sort 
of  things  that  frighten  me  and  then  it  is  because — " 

"Phaugh!  Because!"  said  George,  scornfully,  " because 
you  are  a  chicken-hearted  fellow,  and  only  fit  to  be  among 
girls  [crying].  Now  what  have  you  to  cry  for  ?  But  this 
is  always  the  case  ;  if  you  only  say  a  word  to  him  he  begins 
to  make  that  ugly  face." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Master  George,"  said  Wilson,  "I 
think  you  are  enough  to  make  him  cry ;  and  for  my  own 
part,  I  don't  count  much  of  persons  who  talk  a  great  deal 
about  their  courage,  and  are  fond  of  laughing  at  others, 
Brave  boys  and  brave  men  too  say  little,  and  boasters  gene- 
rally do  little ;  and  though  I  agree  with  you  it  is  like  a  wo- 
man to  be  whimpering  for  every  thing,  or  for  nothing,  I  con- 
sider that  man  no  man  at  all  who  is  ashamed  to  shed  a  tear 
on  a  proper  occasion  ;  and  any  way,  too  much  feeling  is  better 
than  too  little.  He  may  not  grow  up  a  worse  man,  for  not 
being  quite  so  bold  as  others  while  he  is  a  boy." 

Jamie  nestled  closer  to  the  farmer's  side,  and  looked  grate- 
fully up  into  his  face,  while  George,  indignant  at  the  implied 
rebuke,  showed  his  displeasure  by  a  toss  of  his  head,  and  a 
more  consequential  adjustment  of  his  hat. 

11  Indeed,  Mr.  Wilson,"  said  Caroline,  "cousin  Jamie  is  a 


THE  MASK. 


9 


very  kind,  good-natured  boy,  and  though  papa  says  he  wishes 
he  would  exert  himself  more  than  he  does,  and  endeavour  to 
conquer  his  failing,  he  often  makes  excuses  for  him,  and  de- 
sires us  to  do  all  we  can  to  encourage  him  ;  for  he  suffered 
a  great  many  hardships  when  he  was  abroad,  and  was  badly 
nursed,  and  for  a  good  while  was  left  to  the  care  of  weak  and 
ignorant  servants,  for  his  papa  was  killed  in  India,  and  his 
mamma  died  on  her  passage  to  England. 

"  Poor  little  boy !"  sighed  the  farmer.  Jamie's  eyes  again 
filled  with  tears,  but  he  quickly  said,  "  Yes,  dear  Caroline, 
my  poor  papa  and  mamma  are,  indeed,  both  dead,  and  well 
do  I  remember  how  cruel  the  maids  were  to  me  on  board  that 
ugly  ship,  and  what  horrid  tales  they  told  me — but  it  is  over 
now — and  your  papa  is  my  papa,  and  you  are  my  brothers 
and  sisters,  and  dearly  do  I  love  you  all." 

"  And  so  do  we  love  you,  Jamie,"  returned  Caroline,  afFec 
tionately.  "  You  do,  I  know,"  replied  the  little  fellow  timidly 
"  but,  but,"  and  he  looked  wistfully  at  George — 

"Oh!  I  love  you  too,"  said  George,  understanding  him, 
"but  I  hate  crying  boys,  and" — cowards  he  would  have 
added,  had  not  Wilson,  in  whose  kind  heart  Jamie  had  se- 
cured an  interest,  interrupted  him  by  saying,  "  Since  I  know 
your  papa's  wishes,  Master  George,  I  shall  not  scruple  to 
forbid  your  talking  of  your  cousin  in  this  way.    But  I  should 


10 


THE  MASK. 


like  to  know  if  you  are  really  as  brave  as  you  would  make 
us  believe." 

"  Oh  yes,"  warmly  exclaimed  Jamie,  "  that  he  is— if  I  were 
but  as  brave  as  he,  Mr.  Wilson,  I  should  be  so  happy." 

u  I'll  soon  show  you  what  I  am,  and  what  I  dare  do,'" — ■ 
said  George,  consequentially,  at  the  same  time  attempting  to 
take  the  reins. 

"No,  no,  Master  George,"  said  the  Farmer,  "  there's  no 
courage  in  pretending  to  do  what  we  know  nothing  about^ 
or  that  is  above  our  ability, — you  talk  largely ;  but  take  care 
— all  is  not  gold  that  glitters.  Squibs  make  almost  as  much 
noise  as  guns,  but  after  all  they  are  only  squibs,  and  when 
they  have  whizzed,  and  hissed,  and  cracked  a  bit,  fall  to 
pieces  and  come  to  nothing  :  and  as  to  daring — the  boy  that 
dares  to  do  what  does  not  become  him,  is  fool-hard}7  in  order 
to  show  his  bravery  :  is  not  only  as  noisy  as  a  squib,  but  as 
empty  and  as  worthless  too,  and  proves  that  both  his  head 
and  his  heart  are  not  what  they  ought  to  be." 

At  this  moment  the  cart  stopped  at  the  gate,  which  led 
directly  to  the  dwelling  of  Wilson.  It  was  part  of  the  an- 
cient Abbey  from  which  the  farm  derived  its  name,  and  had 
been  made  habitable  for  the  parents  of  the  present  worthy 
tenant,  who  stood  so  high  in  the  estimation  of  Mr.  Gordon, 
that  his  children  were  allowed  once  in  the  course  of  the  sum- 


THE  MASK. 


rner,  to  spend  a  day  or  two  with  him  and  his  wife,  the  latter 
having  also  been  a  favorite  servant  in  the  family.  Mrs  Wilson 
and  her  children  came  out  to  receive  and  welcome  them,  and 
having  conducted  them  into  her  parlour,  regaled  them  with 
curds,  cream,  and  strawberries.  Every  thing  contributed  to 
gratify  them,  and  the  day  passed  away  very  happily  :  to- 
wards evening  however,  the  sky  became  gradually  obscured, 
and  a  tempest  seeming  to  threaten,  she  called  her  young  vi- 
sitors into  the  house.  The  apartment,  which  was  always 
gloomy,  grew  doubly  so  as  the  heavy  clouds  collected  in 
masses  over  the  building.  The  wind  sighed  in  low  murmurs 
along  the  ivied  walls,  or  in  sudden  gusts  shook  the  huge 
branches  of  the  majestic  oaks,  which  extended  along  the  north 
side  of  the  Abbey. 

The  children,  who  had  amused  themselves  with  a  variety 
of  sports,  were  for  some  time  insensible  of  the  increasing 
darkness.  It  was  first  perceived  by  Jamie,  on  whose  percep- 
tible mind  and  nervous  fiame,  it  quickly  operated.  He  started 
at  every  sound,  and  looked  fearfully  around  him,  nor  could 
any  inducement  draw  him  into  the  deeper  shades  of  the  large 
room.  George  soon  espied  the  state  of  his  mind,  and  suffered 
not  the  opportunity  to  escape  him,  of  playing  upon  his  weak- 
ness. At  length,  by  way  of  diverting  their  attention,  Mrs. 
Wilson  proposed  a  game  of  geographical  puzzel ;  this  being 


12 


the  mask. 


eagerly  accepted,  she  went  in  search  of  the  box.  George  ac- 
companied her  as  the  boldest  of  the  party :  on  her  return  a 
game  was  agreed  upon,  but  was  soon  exchanged  for  an  ex- 
hibition of  tricks,  which  the  youngest  sister  of  Wilson  pro- 
posed to  show  them.  They  were  all  too  intent  to  remark  the 
absence  of  George,  and  so  entirely  were  they  engrossed  by 
what  was  passing,  that  even  Jamie  forgot  his  fears,  and  was 
as  much  amused  as  his  companions.  In  the  midst  of  their 
enjoyment,  a  loud  groan,  followed  by  a  smart  stroke  upon 
the  door,  made  them  start  with  affright.  In  an  instant  they 
stood  aghast :  but  Caroline  quickly  recovering  herself  on 
having  perceived  that  George  was  missing,  moved  hastily  to 
the  door,  followed  by  her  brother  ;  when  the  noise  being  sud- 
denly repeated,  it  opened,  and  a  figure  of  hideous  aspect  and 
clothed  in  white  entered. — A  universal  shriek  attested  their 
terror — the  youngest  child  threw  its  arms  round  the  neck  of 
its  Aunt.  Caroline  retreated  in  haste,  while  poor  Jamie  who 
had  sunk  on  the  ground,  clung  to  her  for  aid,  and  with  his 
hand  clasped  in  hers,  was  incapable  of  withdrawing  his  eyes 
from  the  appalling  object  before  him.  The  horrible  noise 
which  the  figure  uttered  as  it  burst  into  the  room,  was  imme- 
diately succeeded  by  a  loud  laugh,  and  the  salutation  of 
"  Oh  you  silly  things" — proclaimed  the  monster  to  be  George. 
He  had  espied,  in  the  drawer  from  which  Mrs.  Wilson  took 


THE  MASK. 


13 


the  cards,  a  mask :  the  idea  instantly  occurring  to  him  how 
well  it  might  answer  his  purpose,  he  secured  it ;  and  having 
persuaded  one  of  the  maids  to  aid  him7  he  thus  accomplished 
his  plan. 

Poor  Jamie's  dismay  was  not  to  be  removed  by  the  disco- 
very of  its  folly,  and  George  had  now  sufficient  food  for  his 
raillery.  The  pleasure  of  the  party,  however,  was  destroyed  ; 
and,  unable  to  restore  their  spirits,  Mrs.  Wilson  thought  it 
more  prudent  to  dismiss  them  for  the  night. 

A  bright  morning  removed  all  former  disagreeable  impres- 
sions, and  nothing  occurred  throughout  the  course  of  this 
day  to  diminish  their  enjoyment.  The  next,  their  papa  ar- 
rived for  the  purpose  of  conveying  them  home.  The  two 
boys  having  expressed  a  desire  to  explore  the  Abbey,  Mr. 
Gordon  agreed  to  accompany  them.  The  view  of  the  sur- 
rounding country -from  the  exterior,  was  beautiful;  and  the 
care  they  were  obliged  to  observe,  as  they  proceeded  from  one 
part  to  another,  and  the  occasional  scrambles  that  the  decay- 
ed  state  of  the  building  caused  them,  added,  in  no  inconside- 
rable degree,  to  their  gratification.  They  were  now  in  the 
most  ancient  part  of  the  building. 

"  I  believe,"  said  Mr..  Gordon,  "  we  are  perfectly  safe  ;  but 
it  may  be  as  well  to  go  to  the  other  side— wait  an  instant  till  I 
step  over  this  parapet,  and  I  will  then  take  hold  of  your  hands/' 


14 


THE  MASK. 


"  Oh,  I  can  get  over  by  myself/'  cried  George,  pressing 
forward. 

"  Stay  where  you  are  !"  commanded  Mr.  Gordon,  and  so 
saying  he  moved  forward  ;  but  no  sooner  had  he  set  his  foot 
on  the  wall,  the  ruinous  condition  of  which  was  concealed 
by  the  ivy  which  covered  it,  than  it  fell  with  a  sudden  crash, 
and  he  was  precipitated  along  with  the  fragments.  In  his 
descent,  however,  he  caught  at  a  projecting  stone,  and  thrust- 
ing the  point  of  his  foot  in  the  tendrils  of  the  ivy,  hung  sus- 
pended over  certain  destruction.  His  situation  was  frightful 
in  the  extreme.  A  chasm  was  formed  in  the  wall  between 
him  and  the  children.  George  uttered  a  shriek  of  terror,  and 
springing  back  from  the  widening  gulph,  continued  to  scream 
aloud  for  help  ;  but  in  less  time  than  the  relation  could  be 
made,  Jamie  had  leaped  across  the  opening  to  the  opposite 
wall  which  was  considerably  lower,  and  sliding  down  to  a 
part  of  the  root  which  was  remaining,  threw  himself  upon 
his  face,  and  crept  to  its  edge,  then  firmly  grasping  the  ivy 
with  one  hand  he  extended  the  other  to  Mr.  Gordon. 

"  Uncle !  dear  Uncle  !  look  up,"  cried  he,  for  it  was  not 
possible  for  the  latter  to  perceive  the  action,  "take  hold  of 
my  hand,  I  can  support  you."  It  was  his  only  chance  of 
life,  and  Mr.  Gordon  instinctively  seized  the  proffered  assis- 
tance. 


THE  MASK. 


15 


u  Run,  run,  George,"  cried  the  now  ardent  boy,  "  fetch 
Wilson  in  a  moment." 

Roused  by  the  words,  George  fled  for  assistance  ;  but  hap- 
pily the  shriek  he  had  uttered,  had  answered  every  desirable 
purpose.  Wilson,  who  was  in  the  adjoining  field  engaged 
in  hay-making,  had  heard  it.  and  beholding  the  accident,  and 
the  perilous  situation  of  Mr.  Gordon,  had  seized  a  ladder,  and 
with  his  men,  had  run  to  the  spot. 

The  strength  of  both  Uncle  and  Nephew  were  nearly  ex- 
hausted. 

"You  must  leave  hold,  dear  boy,"  said  Mr.  Gordon,  "  I 
shall  only  drag  you  clown  also.  God  bless  you." — "  Only 
an  instant  longer" — was  the  eager  reply. 

M  Courage,  Uncle, — here  is  Wilson,  don't  shake, — steady, 
he  is  close  to  you, — now,  now,  grasp  tighter."  —  But  Mr. 
Gordon  was  relaxing  bis  hold,  when  the  Farmer  threw  his 
powerful  arms  round  him  and  drew  him  safely  upon  firm 
landing.  Nearly  overcome,  he  was  obliged  to  pause  to  re- 
cover himself.  Wilson  looked  up  to  his  favourite.  "  Well 
done,  little  one,"  said  he  ;  "  keep  where  you  are,  don't  attempt 
to  stir,  and  I  will  come  for  you."  He  now  shifted  the  ladder, 
and  again  mounting  it,  in  another  moment  brought  Jamie, 
trembling  with  emotion,  to  his  Uncle. 

Mr.  Gordon  caught  him  in  his  arms:  "  my  brave  hide 


16 


THE  MASK, 


preserver,"  cried  he,  and  as  he  spoke,  tears  would  have  been 
visible  had  not  the  curls  of  Jamie,  whose  head  was  buried  in 
his  bosom,  hid  them,  11  to  you,  under  Providence,  I  owe  my 
life." 

"  Brave,  Uncle  !"  exclaimed  Jamie,  quickly  rising,  and  re- 
garding him  with  a  look  of  astonishment, — "you  forget  it  is 
George  who  is  brave,  Jamie  is  a  " 

George  who  had  rejoined  them  in  time  to  witness  the  latter 
part  of  the  scene,  stood  by  in  visible  emotion.  He  was  white 
and  red  alternately,  his  lip  quivered,  and  his  whole  frame 
shook ;  at  length,  bursting  passionately,  into  tears,  he  ex- 
claimed, "  No,  Jamie,  you  are  no  coward  ;  it  is  I  who — "He 
could  not  finish  the  sentence ;  but  approaching  his  father 
from  whom  he  had  hitherto  kept  aloof,  he  clasped  his  arms 
around  him,  and  sobbed  with  violence.  "  Indeed,  indeed,  I 
love  you,"  he  articulated  in  broken  accents,  "  although  I  did 
nothing  to  assist  j^ou." 

"  Ah  !  Master  George,"  said  Wilson,  "you  remember  now 
what  I  said  about  the  squibs ;  it  is  one  thing,  you  find,  to  act 
goblins  and  frighten  people,  and  another  to  expose  yourself 
to  save  them  from  danger."  This  speech  afterwards  led  to 
an  explanation  of  the  former  evening's  exploit.  Mr.  Gordon 
heard  the  recital  with  concern. 

"  George,"  said  he,  "  let  this  be  a  lesson  never  to  be  for- 


THE  MASK. 


17 


gotten  by  you.  To  play  upon  the  weakness  or  failings  of 
another,  always  evinces  an  unamiable,  and  often  a  dastardly, 
spirit.  True  courage  does  not  consist  in  a  presumptuous 
bearing  to  our  fellow-creatures,  nor  in  exhibitions  of  boldness 
where  it  is  uncalled  for,  and  which  have  no  tendency  but  to 
make  us  oppressive  and  to  feed  our  own  vanity.  The  really 
brave  are  those  who  are  the  least  selfish,  and  by  whom  the 
calls  of  humanity  are  no  sooner  heard  than  regarded  ;  and 
who,  on  just  and  reasonable  occasions,  set  no  competition 
between  another's  preservation  or  benefit,  and  their  own  in- 
dividual safety  and  convenience ;  who  never  court  danger 
merely  to  exhibit  their  prowess,  and  who  never  shun  it  when 
to  meet  it  becomes  a  duty.  This  is  the  only  courage  that 
dignifies  a  man  :  all  other  is  counterfeit,  and  merits  no  better 
designation  than  ferocity,  and  is  a  quality  possessed  in  equal 
or  greater  degree  by  brutes." 

"  But  why,  papa,"  asked  George,  "  should  there  have  been 
such  a  difference  between  Jamie  and  myself  before?" 

"  Much  of  your  apparent  courage,"  replied  Mr.  Gordon, 
"  is  mere  animal  spirits,  and  depends  greatly  upon  bodily 
health,  and  other  external  causes  or  circumstances.  Jamie 
is  the  reverse  of  yourself  in  this  respect ;  and  the  peculiar 
disadvantages  under  which  he  has  laboured,  have  added  de- 
fects which  were  not  natural  to  him.    The  timidity  which 

3 


IS 


THE  MASK. 


created  your  contempt  argued  no  positive  absence  of  courage; 
and  sufficiently  exciting  cause,  as  the  event  has  proved,  only 
was  wanting  to  display  his  real  character  ;  and  this  applied, 
your  cousin  showed  a  superiority  which  you  would  never, 
without  such  a  demonstration,  have  believed  him  capable  of 
Learn,  then,  to  distrust  yourself,  and  to  judge  more  favourably 
of  others  whose  exterior  may  promise  less  than  opportunity 
may  hereafter  present  to  your  own  confusion." 

Jamie  eagerly  waited  till  his  uncle  had  finished  speaking. 
"No,  dear  uncle,"  then,  said  he,  warmly;  "do  not  say  that 
I  am,  or  ever  can  be,  superior  to  George ;  say  only  that  I  may 
be  as  brave  as  he,  and  I  shall  be  quite  happy;  and  will  never 
again  be  afraid  of  goblins,  or  terrified  at  masks  " 

"  You  are  not  only  a  braver  boy  than  I,"  said  George,  on 
whose  naturally  good  disposition  both  the  conduct  and  words 
of  Jamie  had  acted  powerfully,  11  hut  a  better  one  ;  and  never, 
papa,  never,  Caroline,  (for  his  sister  had  now  joined  them,) 
will  I  play  tricks  upon  him  again.  But,  oh,  papa,  how  much 
happier  is  he  than  your  own  boy ! — I  envy  and  love  him  too  ; 
for  he  saved  your  life,  while  I  should  have  left  you  to  a  honid 
death. 

He  shuddered  as  he  spoke,  and  the  fulness  of  his  heart 
prevented  further  utterance.  Mr.  Gordon  affectionately  ca- 
ressed him.    "  The  avowal  of  error  is  another  species  of  cou- 


THE  MASK. 


19 


rage  most  honourable  in  itself,"  said  he,  "  and  that  my  boy 
evinces  to  my  entire  satisfaction.  Henceforth,  excite  each 
other  to  true  heroism,  and  let  the  thankfulness  which  the 
remembrance  of  this  day's  mercy  must  ever  awaken  in  my 
mind,  be  confirmed  by  your  uninterrupted  harmony,  and  es- 
tablished reputations  for  all  that  is  good,  arid  virtuous,  and 
honourable.  Sweet  is  the  recollection  of  danger  past;  but 
sweeter  far  the  conviction  of  the  present  good  resulting  from 
it.  Thus  beholding  you,  I  shall  esteem  myself  richly  repaid 
for  what  I  have  really  suffered  ;  and,  in  my  affection  for  my 
equally  brave  and  dear  boys,  will  leave  them  nothing  to  envy 
nor  to  rival  each  other," 


20 


A  PUZZLE, 

IN  WHICH  I  GIVE  A  FEW  PARTICULARS  OF  MY  OWN  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER, 
BUT  WITHHOLD  MY  NAME, 

I  shall  not  commence,  like  most  autobiographers,  with  an 
account  of  my  birth,  parentage,  and  education. 

The  first  and  second  I  have  important  reasons  for  conceal- 
ing ;  and  the  third,  education,  was  to  me  unnecessary.  I  was 
a  natural  genius, — my  powers  were  all  innate.  In  my  ear- 
liest infancy  I  enlightened  and  improved  more  human  beings 
than  the  wisest  sages  and  profoundest  philosophers  ever  hoped 
to  do,  in  their  fondest  schemes  for  the  benefit  of  the  human 
race. 

Do  not'suppose  that  I  conceal  my  origin  from  false  shame. 
On  the  contrary,  I  can  outvie  in  antiquity  the  proudest  prince 
on  earth  ;  and  if  the  Chinese  can  prove  that  their  first  king, 
Puon-ku,  reigned  ninety  six  millions  of  years  before  the 
Christian  era,  I  can  bring  undeniable  proof  that  I  reigned 
before  him. 

I  am  a  great  and  rapid  traveller.    It  is  recorded,  that  Eu- 


A  PUZZLE. 


21 


chides,  a  citizen  of  Platsea,  walked  to  Delphi,  and  returned 
with  the  sacred  fire,  before  sunset — having  walked  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  miles  in  one  day.  I  performed  the 
journey  in  less  than  half  the  time ! 

"I've  heard  of  riding  wagers. 
Where  horses  have  been  nimbler  than  the  sands 
That  rim  i'  th'  clock's  behalf." 

I  have  excelled  them  all !  I  visited  America  long  before 
Columbus  was  born.  I  have  long  ago  anticipated  Captain 
Parry,  in  making  the  north-west  passage  to  China; — if  he 
had  followed  my  path,  he  would  have  found  no  interruption 
from  the  ice.  My  constitution  can  endure  extremes — heat 
and  cold  are  alike  indifferent  to  me;  I  have  therefore,  gone 
farther  into  the  interior  of  Africa,  than  Park  or  Bowditch 
ever  attempted.  I  have  also  crossed  the  Andes,  with  more 
ease  and  expedition  than  Captain  Head. 

Some  Irishman  said,  "  that  no  man  could  be  in  two  places 
at  once,  barring  he  was  a  bird."  I  can,  I  have  been  in 
more  than  two  hundred  places  at  the  same  time! 

Do  not  think  I  assume  to  myself  an  attribute  of  Deity. 
There  are  more  than  two  thousand  places  where  I  am  not ! 

I  have  been  an  eye  witness  of  many  of  the  most  remarka- 
ble events  in  history,  sacred  and  profane. 

I  was  present  at  those  most  sublime  and  awful  periods, — 


22 


A  fTJZZLE. 


the  Resurrection  and  Ascension.  I  was  present  wi'h  St. 
Paul,  at  his  conversion ;  and  also  when  he  made  Felix 
tremble.  I  accompanied  Titus,  the  "  delight  of  mankind,"  in 
all  his  deeds  of  mercy,  and  was  present  when  he  gave  up  his 
property  for  the  relief  of  the  sufferers  from  an  eruption  of* 
Mount  Vesuvius.  I  was  inseparable  from  King  Alfred.  I 
witnessed  the  devoted  affection  of  Queen  Eleanor,  who  sucked 
the  poison  from  her  husband's  wound  at  the  risk  of  her  own 
life.  I  was  also  at  Calais,  when  Queen  Philippa  used  her 
benevolent  influence  to  preserve  the  lives  of  six  citizens  who 
had  offered  themselves  to  save  their  city. 

You  have  already  guessed  that  I  am  the  "  Wandering1 
Jew"— You  are  mistaken.  He  was  present  at  the  Cruci- 
fixion— I  was  not. 

It  is  my  greatest  glory,  that  I  have  seldom  been  present  at 
outrageous  deeds  of  sin  and  wickedness;  indeed,  my  very 
presence  is  often  sufficient  to  deter  men  from  deeds  of  evil. 
Plots  contrived  with  the  greatest  secrecy,  are  sooner  or  later 
brought  to  me,  and  I  am  generally  enabled  to  subvert  them. 

As  candour  and  sincerity  are  my  distinguishing  charac- 
teristics, I  may  affirm  that  I  have  no  dark  side  in  my  own 
disposition,  or  conduct. 

I  may  also  declare,  without  conceit,  that  I  excel  in  paint- 
ing ;  and  that  Raphael  and  Reubens  were  as  much  indebted 


A  PUZZLE* 


23 


to  my  instructions,  as  Reynolds  and  Lawrence  have  been  in 
later  times.  I  have  no  ear  for  music,  nor  can  I  produce  a 
note,  though  I  am  well  versed  in  the  science  of  harmony. 

It  is  to  the  science  of  optics  that  I  chiefly  devote  myself, 
and  have  done  more  to  its  elucidation,  than  most  practical 
men.  I  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  Sir  Isaac  Newton :  his 
discoveries  and  writings  have  developed  my  faculties,  and 
enlarged  my  capacity. 

Poets  of  renown  have  celebrated  my  praise:  but  to  the  best 
of  poets,  Homer  and  Milton,  I  was  almost  a  stranger.  I  am 
not  known  as  an  author,  and  I  never  preached  a  sermon  ;  yet 
my  "  Reflections  on  Mankind"  have  been  of  incalculable  be- 
nefit to  the  human  race.  Critics  will  tell  you  that  these  Re- 
flections are  not  solid, — in  fact,  have  no  weight,  though  they 
confess  they  bear  some  colour  of  truth. 

"  I  will  confess  my  want  of  gravity  ;  but  I  have  other  pro- 
perties, or  qualities,  which  supply  that  of  solidity.  I  have 
an  unvaried  rectitude  of  principle,  and  pursue  that  line  of 
conduct  which  leads  me  directly  to  my  object.  My  power 
surpasses  that  of  the  greatest  potentate  on  earth  ;  yet  so  far 
from  exciting  fear,  or  terror,  by  my  presence,  fear  flies  at  my 
approach.  I  am  the  harbinger  of  joy;  and  it  is  only  in  my 
absence  that  men  turn  pale  with  affright ! 

My  form  is  slender  and  agile.    I  can  pass  through  the 


24 


A  PUZZLE. 


narrowest  passages;  yet  I  am,  at  times,  so  large,  that  the 
most  spacious  chamber  will  not  contain  me. 

I  cannot  describe  to  you  the  garb  by  which  to  recognize 
me,  as  I  vary  it  continually,  both  in  form  and  colour ;  and 
without  vanity,  or  extravagance,  I  conform  to  every  variety 
of  fashion.  My  constitution  is  such,  that  I  cannot  exist  in  a 
dungeon,  nor  even  in  a  room,  if  the  shutters  be  closed,  and 
have  no  aperture.  But  I  must  now  conclude  with  a  most 
humiliating  confession ;  you  have  heard  the  German  story 
of  a  man  who  had  no  shadow — /  am  in  the  same  predica- 
ment ! 


25 


JESSY  OF  KIBE'S  FARM. 


By  Miss  M.  R.  Mitford. 


About  the  centre  of  a  deep  winding  and  woody  lane,  in 
the  secluded  village  of  Aberleigh,  stands  an  old  farm-house, 
whose  stables,  out-buildings,  and  ample  yard,  have  a  pecu- 
liarly forlorn  and  deserted  appearance ;  they  can,  in  fact, 
scarcely  be  said  to  be  occupied,  the  person  who  rents  the  land 
preferring  to  live  at  a  large  farm  about  a  mile  distant,  leav- 
ing this  lonely  house  to  the  care  of  a  labourer  and  his  wife, 
who  reside  in  one  end,  and  have  the  charge  of  a  few  colts 
and  heifers  that  run  in  the  orchard  and  an  adjoining  mea- 
dow, whilst  the  vacant  rooms  are  tenanted  by  a  widow  in 
humble  circumstances  and  her  young  family. 

The  house  is  beautifully  situated;  deep,  as  I  have  said,  in 
a  narrow  woody  lane,  wliich  winds  between  high  banks, 
now  feathered  with  hazel,  now  thickly  studded  with  pollards 
and  forest  trees,  until  opposite  Kibe's  farm  it  widens  suffi- 
ciently to  admit  a  large  clear  pond,  round  which  the  hedge, 

4 


26 


JESSY. 


closely  and  regularly  set  with  a  row  of  tall  elms,  sweeps  in 
a  graceful  curve,  forming  for  that  bright  mirror,  a  rich  leafy 
frame.  A  little  way  farther  on  the  lane  again  widens,  and 
makes  an  abrupter  winding,  as  it  is  crossed  by  a  broad 
shallow  stream,  a  branch  of  the  Loddon,  which  comes  me- 
andering along  from  a  chain  of  beautiful  meadows;  then 
turns  in  a  narrower  channel  by  the  side  of  the  road,  and  finally 
spreads  itself  into  a  large  piece  of  water,  almost  a  lakelet, 
amidst  the  rushes  and  willows  of  Hartly  Moor.  A  foot- 
bridge is  flung  over  the  stream,  where  it  crosses  the  lane, 
which,  with  a  giant  oak  growing  on  the  bank,  and  throwing 
its  broad  branches  far  on  the  opposite  side,  forms  in  every 
season  a  pretty  rural  picture. 

Kibe's  farm  is  as  picturesque  as  its  situation ;  very  old, 
very  irregular,  with  gable  ends,  clustered  chimneys,  casement 
windows,  a  large  porch,  and  a  sort  of  square  wing  jutting 
out  even  with  the  porch,  and  covered  with  a  luxuriant  vine, 
which  has  quite  the  effect,  especially  when  seen  by  moon- 
light, of  an  ivy  mantled  tower.  On  one  side  extend  the 
ample  but  disused  farm  buildings ;  on  the  other  the  old  or- 
chard, whose  trees  are  so  wild,  so  hoary  and  so  huge,  as  to 
convey  the  idea  of  a  fruit  forest.  Behind  the  house  is  an  am- 
ple kitchen-garden,  and  before  a  neat  flower  court,  the  ex- 
clusive demesne  of  Mrs.  Lucas  and  her  family,  to  whom  in- 


JESSY. 


27 


deed  the  labourer,  John  Miles,  and  his  good  wife  Dinah,  ser- 
ved in  some  sort  as  domestics. 

Mrs.  Lucas  had  known  far  better  days.  Her  husband  had 
been  an  officer,  and  died  fighting  bravely  in  one  of  the  last 
battles  of  the  Peninsular  war,  leaving  her  w7ith  three  chil- 
dren, one  lovely  boy  and  two  delicate  girls,  to  struggle 
through  the  world  as  best  she  might.  She  was  an  accom- 
plished woman,  and  at  first  settled  in  a  great  town,  and  en- 
deavoured to  improve  her  small  income  by  teaching  music 
and  languages.  But  she  was  country  bred ;  her  children 
too  had  been  born  in  the  country,  amidst  the  sweetest  recesses 
of  the  New  Forest,  and  pining  herself  for  liberty,  and  soli- 
tude, and  green  fields,  and  fresh  air,  she  soon  began  to  fancy 
that  her  children  were  visibly  deteriorating  in  health  and 
appearance  and  pining  for  them  also ;  and  finding  that  her 
old  servant  Dinah  Miles  was  settled  with  her  husband  in 
this  deserted  farm-house,  she  applied  to  his  master  to  rent  for 
a  few  months  the  untenanted  apartments,  came  to  Aberleigh, 
and  fixed  there  apparently  for  life. 

We  lived  in  different  parishes,  and  she  declined  company, 
so  that  I  seldom  met  Mrs.  Lucas,  and  had  lost  sight  of  her 
for  some  years,  retaining  merely  a  general  recollection  of  the 
mild,  placid,  elegant  mother,  sourrounded  by  three  rosy,  romp- 
ing1, bright-eyed  children,  when  the  arrival  of  an  intimate 


28 


JESSY. 


friend  at  Aberleigh  rectory  caused  me  frequently  to  pass  the 
lonely  farm  house,  and  threw  this  interesting  family  again 
under  my  observation. 

The  first  time  that  I  saw  them  was  on  a  bright  summer 
evening,  when  the  nightingale  was  yet  in  the  coppice,  the 
briar  rose  blossoming  in  the  hedge,  and  the  sweet  scent  of  the 
bean  fields  perfuming  the  air.  Mrs.  Lucas,  still  lovely  and 
elegant,  though  somewhat  faded  and  careworn,  was  walk- 
ing pensively  up  and  down  the  grass  path  of  the  pretty  flower 
court ;  her  eldest  daughter,  a  rosy  bright  brunette,  with  her 
dark  hair  floating  in  all  directions,  was  darting  about  like  a 
bird ;  now  tying  up  the  pinks,  now  watering  the  geraniums, 
now  collecting  the  fallen  rose  leaves  into  the  straw  bonnet 
which  dangled  from  her  arm ;  and  now  feeding  a  brood  of 
bantams  from  a  little  barley  measure,  which  that  sagacious 
and  active  colony  seemed  to  recognise  as  if  by  instinct,  com- 
ing long  before  she  called  them  at  their  swiftest  pace,  between 
a  run  and  a  fly,  to  await  with  their  usual  noisy  and  bustling 
patience  the  showers  of  grain  which  she  flung  to  them  across 
the  paling.  It  was  a  beautiful  picture  of  youth,  and  health, 
and  happiness  ;  and  her  clear  gay  voice,  and  brilliant  smile, 
accorded  well  with  a  shape  and  motion  as  light  as  a  butter- 
fly, and  as  wild  as  the  wind.  A  beautiful  picture  was  that 
rosy  lass  of  fifteen  in  her  unconscious  loveliness,  and  I  might 


JESSY. 


29 


have  continued  gazing  on  her  longer,  had  I  not  been  attracted  by 
an  object  no  less  charming,  although  in  a  very  different  way. 

It  was  a  slight  elegant  girl,  apparently  about  a  year  younger 
than  the  pretty  romp  of  the  flower  garden,  not  unlike  her  in 
form  and  feature,  but  totally  distinct  in  colouring  and  expres- 
sion. She  sat  in  the  old  porch,  wreathed  with  jessamine  and 
honeysuckle,  with  the  western  sun  floating  around  her  like  a 
glory,  and  displaying  the  singular  beauty  of  her  chesnut  hair, 
brown  with  a  golden  light,  and  the  exceeding  delicacy  of  her 
smooth  and  finely  grained  complexion,  so  pale,  and  yet  so 
healthful.  Her  whole  face  and  form  had  a  bending  and 
statue-like  grace,  encreased  by  the  adjustment  of  her  splendid 
hair,  which  was  parted  on  her  white  forehead,  and  gathered 
up  behind  in  a  large  knot — a  natural  coronet.  Her  eyebrows 
and  long  eyelashes  were  a  few  shades  darker  than  her  hair, 
and  singularly  rich  and  beautiful.  She  was  plaiting  straw 
rapidly  and  skilfully,  and  bent  over  her  work  with  a  mild 
and  placid  attention,  a  sedate  pensiveness  that  did  not  belong 
to  her  age,  and  which  contrasted  strangely  and  sadly  with 
the  gaiety  of  her  laughing  and  brilliant  sister,  who  at  this 
moment  darted  up  to  her  with  a  handful  of  pinks  and  some 
groundsel.  Jessy  received  them  with  a  smile — such  a  smile ! 
— spoke  a  few  sweet  words  in  a  sweet  sighing  voice ;  put  the 
flowers  in  her  bosom,  and  the  groundsel  in  the  cage  of  a  linnet 


30 


JESSY. 


that  hung  near  her  ;  and  then  resumed  her  seat  and  her  work, 
imitating  better  than  I  have  ever  heard  them  imitated,  the  va- 
rious notes  of  a  nightingale  who  was  singing  in  the  opposite 
hedge ;  whilst  I,  ashamed  of  loitering  longer,  passed  on. 

The  next  time  I  saw  her,  my  interest  in  this  lovely  creature 
was  increased  tenfold — for  I  then  knew  that  Jessy  was  blind — 
a  misfortune  always  so  touching,  especially  in  early  youth 
and  in  her  case  rendered  peculiarly  affecting  by  the  personal 
character  of  the  individual.  We  soon  became  acquainted, 
and  even  intimate  under  the  benign  auspicss  of  the  kind  mis- 
tress of  the  rectory ;  and  every  interview  served  to  encrease  the 
interest  excited  by  the  whole  family,  and  most  of  all  by  the 
sweet  blind  girl. 

Never  was  any  human  being  more  gentle,  generous,  and 
grateful,  or  more  unfeignedly  resigned  to  her  great  calamity. 
The  pensiveness  that  marked  her  character  arose  as  I  soon 
perceived  from  a  different  source.  Her  blindness  had  been 
of  recent  occurrence,  arising  from  inflammation  unskilfully 
treated,  and  was  pronounced  incurable  ;  but  from  coming  on 
so  lately,  it  admitted  of  several  alleviations,  of  which  she 
was  accustomed  to  speak  with  a  devout  and  tender  gratitude. 
M  She  could  work,"  she  said,  "as  well  as  ever;  and  cut  out, 
and  write,  and  dress  herself,  and  keep  the  keys,  and  run 
errands  in  the  house  she  knew  so  well  without  making  any 


JESSY. 


31 


mistake  or  confusion.  Reading,  to  be  sure,  she  had  been 
forced  to  give  up,  and  drawing ;  and  some  day  or  other  she 
would  shew  me,  only  that  it  seemed  so  vain,  some  verses 
which  her  dear  brother  William  had  written  upon  a  groupe 
of  wild  flowers,  which  she  had  begun  before  her  misfortune. 
Oh,  it  was  almost  worth  while  to  be  blind  to  be  the  subject 
of  such  verse,  and  the  object  of  such  affection !  Her  dear 
mamma  was  very  good  to  her,  and  so  was  Emma;  but  Wil- 
liam— oh  she  wished  that  I  knew  William  !  No  one  could  be 
so  kind  as  he !  It  was  impossible  !  He  read  to  her ;  he  talked 
to  her ;  he  walked  with  her ;  he  taught  her  to  feel  confi- 
dence in  walking  alone  ;  he  had  made  for  her  use  the  wooden 
steps  up  the  high  bank  which  led  into  Kibe's  meadow  ;  he 
had  put  the  hand-rail  on  the  old  bridge,  so  that  now  she 
could  get  across  without  danger,  even  when  the  brook  was 
flooded.  He  had  tamed  her  linnet ;  he  had  constructed  the 
wooden  frame,  by  the  aid  of  which  she  could  write  so  com- 
fortably and  evenly ;  could  write  letters  to  him,  and  say  her 
her  own  self  all  that  she  felt  of  love  and  gratitude.  And 
that,"  she  continued  with  a  deep  sigh,  "  was  her  chief  com- 
fort now  ;  for  William  was  gone,  and  they  should  never  meet 
again — never  alive — that  she  was  sure  of — she  knew  it." 
11  But  why,  Jessy  ?"  "  Oh,  because  William  was  so  much 
too  good  for  this  world ;  there  was  nobody  like  William  ! 


32 


JESSY. 


And  he  was  gone  for  a  soldier.  Old  general  Lucas,  her 
father's  uncle,  had  sent  for  him  abroad  ;  had  given  him  a 
commission  in  his  regiment ;  and  he  would  never  come  home 
— at  least  they  should  never  meet  again — of  that  she  was 
sure — she  knew  it." 

This  persuasion  was  evidently  the  master-grief  of  poor 
Jessy's  life,  the  cause  that  far  more  than  her  blindness  faded 
her  cheek,  and  saddened  her  spirit.  How  it  had  arisen  no 
one  knew ;  partly,  perhaps,  from  some  lurking  superstition, 
some  idle  word,  or  idler  omen  which  had  taken  root  in  her 
mind,  nourished  by  the  calamity  which  in  other  respects  she 
bore  so  calmly,  but  which  left  her  so  often  in  darkness  and 
loneliness  to  brood  over  her  own  gloomy  forebodings  ;  partly 
from  her  trembling  sensibility,  and  partly  from  the  delicacy 
of  frame  and  of  habit  which  had  always  characterised  the 
object  of  her  love — a  slender  youth,  whose  ardent  spirit  was 
but  to  apt  to  overtask  his  body. 

However  it  found  admittance,  there  the  presentiment  was, 
hanging  like  a  dark  cloud  over  the  sun-shine  of  Jessy's  young 
life.  Reasoning  was  useless.  They  know  little  of  the  passions 
who  seek  to  argue  with  that  most  intractable  of  them  all,  the 
fear  that  is  born  of  love ;  so  Mrs.  Lucas  and  Emma  tried  to 
amuse  away  these  sad  thoughts,  trusting  to  time,  to  William's 
letters,  and,  above  all,  to  William's  return  to  eradicate  the  evil. 


JESSY. 


33 


The  letters  came  punctually  and  gaily ;  letters  that  might 
have  quieted  the  heart  of  any  sister  in  England,  except  the 
fluttering  heart  of  Jessy  Lucas.  William  spoke  of  improved 
health,  of  increased  strength,  of  actual  promotion,  and  ex- 
pected recal.  At  last  he  even  announced  his  return  under 
auspices  the  most  gratifying  to  his  mother,  and  the  most 
beneficial  to  her  family.  The  regiment  was  ordered  home, 
and  the  old  and  wealthy  relation,  under  whose  protection  he 
had  already  risen  so  rapidly,  had  expressed  his  intention  to 
accompany  him  to  Kibe's  farm,  to  be  introduced  to  his  ne- 
phew's widow  and  daughters,  especially  Jessy,  for  whom  he 
expressed  himself  greatly  interested.  A  letter  from  General 
Lucas  himself,  which  arrived  by  the  same  post,  wTas  still 
more  explicit :  it  adduced  the  son's  admirable  character  and 
exemplary  conduct  as  reasons  for  befriending  the  mother,  and 
avowed  his  design  of  providing  for  each  of  his  young  rela- 
tives, and  of  making  William  his  heir. 

For  half  an  hour  after  the  first  hearing  of  these  letters, 
Jessy  was  happy — till  the  peril  of  a  winter  voyage  (for  it 
was  deep  January)  crossed  her  imagination,  and  checked  her 
joy.  At  length,  long  before  they  were  expected,  another 
epistle  arrived,  dated  Portsmouth.  They  had  sailed  by  the 
next  vessel  to  that  which  conveyed  their  previous  despatches, 
and  might  be  expected  hourly  at  Kibe's  farm.  The  voyage 
5 


34 


JESSY. 


was  past,  safely  past,  and  the  weight  seemed  now  really 
taken  from  Jessy's  heart.  She  raised  her  sweet  face  and 
smiled ;  yet  still  it  was  a  fearful  and  a  trembling  joy,  and 
somewhat  of  fear  was  mingled  even  with  the  very  intensity 
of  her  hope.  It  had  been  a  time  of  rain  and  wind  ;  and  the 
Loddon,  the  beautiful  Loddon,  always  so  affluent  of  water, 
had  overflowed  its  boundaries,  and  swelled  the  smaller  streams 
which  it  fed  into  torrents.  The  brook  which  crossed  Kibe's 
lane  had  washed  away  part  of  the  foot-bridge,  destroying 
poor  William's  railing,  and  was  still  foaming  and  dashing 
like  a  cataract.  Now  that  was  the  nearest  way;  and  if 
William  should  insist  on  coming  that  way  !  To  be  sure, 
the  carriage  road  was  round  by  Grazely  Green,  but  to  cross 
the  brook  would  save  half  a  mile;  and  William,  dear  Wil- 
liam, would  never  think  of  danger  to  get  to  those  whom  he 
loved.  These  were  Jessy's  thoughts:  the  fear  seemed  im- 
possible, for  no  postillion  would  think  of  breasting  that  roar- 
ing stream ;  but  the  fond  sister's  heart  was  fluttering  like 
a  new  caught  bird,  and  she  feared  she  knew  not  what. 

All  day  she  paced  the  little  court,  and  stopped  and  listened, 
and  listened  and  stopped.  About  sunset,  with  the  nice  sense 
of  sound  which  seemed  to  come  with  her  fearful  calamity, 
and  that  fine  sense,  quickened  by  anxiety,  expectation, 
and  love,  she  heard,  she  thought  she  heard,  she  was  sure  she 


JESSY. 


35 


heard  the  sound  of  a  carriage  rapidly  advancing  on  the 
other  side  of  the  stream.  "  It  is  only  the  noise  of  the  rush- 
ing waters,"  cried  Emma.  "  I  hear  a  carriage,  the  horses, 
the  wheels!"  replied  Jessy;  and  darted  off  at  once,  with  the 
double  purpose  of  meeting  William,  and  of  warning  the  pos- 
tillion against  crossing  the  stream.  Emma  and  her  mother 
followed,  fast !  fast !  But  what  speed  could  vie  with  Jessy's 
when  the  object  was  William  ?  They  called ;  but  she 
neither  heard  nor  answered.  Before  they  had  won  to  the 
bend  in  the  lane  she  had  reached  the  brook ;  and,  long  be- 
fore either  of  her  pursuers  had  gained  the  bridge,  her  foot 
had  slipt  from  the  wet  and  tottering  plank,  and  she  was  borne 
resistlessly  down  the  stream.  Assistance  was  immediately 
procured;  men,  and  ropes,  and  boats;  for  the  sweet  blind 
girl  was  beloved  of  all,  and  many  a  poor  man  perilled  his 
life  in  a  fruitless  endeavour  to  save  Jessy  Lucas ;  and  Wil- 
liam, too,  was  there,  for  Jessy's  quickened  sense  had  not  de- 
ceived her.  William  was  there,  struggling  with  all  the 
strength  of  love  and  agony  to  rescue  that  dear  and  helpless 
creature:  but  every  effort — although  he  persevered  until  he 
too  was  taken  out  senseless — every  effort  was  vain.  The 
fair  corse  was  recovered,  but  life  was  extinct.  Poor  Jessy's 
prediction  was  verified  to  the  letter ;  and  the  brother  and  his 
favourite  sister  never  met  again. 


36 


EMILY. 


I  lo'e  thee,  gleefu'  little  one, 

For  in  thy  leer  in'  e'e 
I  ken  a  spirit,  far  aboon 

A'  insincerity. 

I  lo'e  to  ponder  on  a  heart 
Sae  young  an'  pure  as  thine, 

Tho'  nigh  it  makes  the  saut  tear  start, 
Contrastin'  it  wi'  mine. 

For  I  am  auld,  an'  I  ha'e  seen 

Of  a'  life's  joys  their  ends, 
An'  my  youth's  innocence  ha'  been 

Lang  ganging  wi'  my  friends. 

But  ye  a  frien'  ha'e  chosen  weel 
To  share  in  a'  your  glee, — 

For  puss  can  lo'e,  and  puss  can  feel, 
An'  wha  sae  blythe  as  she  ? 


MOTTO  FOR  THE  BIBLE. 

Guid  heav'n  bestow  its  blessin's  a! 

On  thee  my  bonnie  bairn  ; 
An'  as  abundantly  they  fa' 

This  lesson  may  ye  learn : — 

A  gratefu'  spirit,  an7  content, 

Ari  pity's  kindly  glow, 
To  a'  aboon  thee  reverent, 

An'  guid  to  a'  below. 

R. 


MOTTO  FOR  THE  BIBLE. 


By  J.  Montgomery,  Esq. 


Behold  the  Book,  whose  leaves  display 
Jesus,  the  life,  the  truth,  the  way ; 
Read  it  with  diligence, — with  prayer ; 
Search  it,  and  thou  shalt  find  Him  there. 


38 


A  TALE  OF  THE  CHRISTMAS  HOLIDAYS. 


By  the  Author  of  "The  Flower  Show,"  and  "The.Black  Linn." 


Twilight  had  long  departed  from  a  drawing-room  in  Bed- 
ford-Square,— for  it  was  during  the  Christmas  Holidays,  and 
the  silver  Time-Piece  had  just  chimed  four.  The  fire  burned 
dim,  and  nothing  was  visible  in  the  room,  but  the  red  re- 
flected lights  on  the  polished  steel  fender  and  fire-irons.  The 
folding  doors  were  partly  open,  and  in  the  inner  drawing- 
room  William  Stanhope  and  his  sisters  were  busy  at  their 
several  occupations,  by  the  light  of  two  wax  tapers. 

"  I  will  not  do  a  stroke  more,"  exclaimed  William,  rising 
suddenly  from  the  table  at  which  he  had  been  sitting,  "  or  I 
shall  be  as  blind  as  my  old  Homer  himself : — it  is  prodi- 
giously dark! — Annie!  will  that  tiresome  Sonata  never  be 
done?" 

"  It  is  done  now cried  the  lively  little  musician,  spring- 
ing from  her  chair,  "  Have  you  any  thing  amusing  to  talk 
about  ?" — continued  she  shifting  up  to  her  brother.    "  What 


A  TALE  OF  THE  CHRISTMAS  HOLIDAYS. 


39 


are  you  thinking  about,  that  makes  you  look  so  extremely 
comical ! — Oh !  /  know — /  know,"  added  she  laughing  and 
dancing. 

"  What  can  you  both  mean  ?"  asked  Mary,  quietly  looking 
up  from  her  drawing. 

"Oh!"  cried  William,  "you  will  never  juess,  if  we  allow 
you  fifty  guesses,  Mary.  But  look  here — this  is  what  we 
are  laughing  at,"  added  he,  running  to  the  door,  and  then 
coming  back  with  stiff  formal  bows,  as  if  he  were  entering  a 
room  filled  with  company. 

Annie,  with  a  scream  and  bound  of  delight,  flew  to  his 
side,  mimicking,  with  the  most  comic  gravity,  some  other 
person  s  entree,  and  short  hurried  curtsies. 

Mary  laughed  till  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"Is  it  like?"  asked  William,  resuming  his  own  manner. 

"As  like  as  life,"  replied  Mary.  "Only  you  want  that 
yellow  wig,  and  that  yellow  face,  and  comical  little  legs." 

"And  I,"  cried  the  sister,  "the  cap,  and  tight  gown,  and 
the  look  altogether,  as  if  I  had  been  drawn  through  the  key- 
hole." 

"  I  am  glad,  Mary,  that  you  saw  the  ridiculousness  of  it," 
continued  William ,  "  I  think  every  body  present  did,  but 
they  were  too  polite  to  laugh.  I  cannot  conceive  why  my 
father  was  so  civil  to  them." 


40 


A  TALE  OF  THE 


"  He  is  civil  to  everybody,"  said  Mary. 

"Yes — yes — I  don't  mean  civil.  I  mean  really  and  ho- 
nestly glad.  He  was  talking  to  the  Bishop  at  the  moment 
when  these  people  were  announced,  about  very  interesting 
things.  I  know  he  was  interested,  because  I  was  behind  his 
chair." 

"Well  done,  Willy!  a  very  good  reason,"  cried  Annie, 
laughing. 

"  No  Annie,"  resumed  her  brother,  somewhat  disconcerted; 
"  I  don't  mean  that,  I  mean  that  I  saw  his  face,  and  heard 
what  he  said — but  when  he  heard  the  name,  he  darted  up 
with  the  greatest  delight,  and  seemed  quite  to  forget  that  he 
had  not  finished  his  sentence." 

"And  such  a  name  too,"  said  Annie  going  to  the  door 
and  imitating  the  manner  of  the  servant,  who  announces 
company.  "  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Lockett." 

"Oh,"  said  William,  "you  did  not  do  it  half  grandly 
enough.  It  was  just  as  if  it  were  the  Emperor  of  Russia 
and  the  Queen  of  Prussia,  who  were  arriving.  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Lockett  f ' 

"  Yes,  said  Mary,  "  and  in  they  came.  The  little  yellow 
wig,  and  the  little  pinched  cap,  bowing  and  curtseying!  It 
was  perfectly  irresistible !  I  cannot  think  why  papa  and 
mamma  invited  them  to  so  pleasant  a  party." 


CHRISTMAS  HOLIDAYS. 


41 


The  children  continued  for  some  time  longer  to  talk  thus 
gaily  and  foolishly,  little  imagining  that  their  mother  was 
in  the  front  drawing-room,  resting  on  the  sofa.  If  they  had 
known  it,  open  and  sincere  as  they  were  towards  their  father 
and  mother,  they  would  not  have  thus  indulged  themselves 
in  ridiculing  their  parents'  guests.  But  as  their  mother  slip- 
ped out  of  the  room  without  speaking,  and  joined  their  father 
and  them  at  dinner  afterwards,  with  her  usual  affectionate 
and  cheerful  expression,  they  had  no  idea  that  she  had  over- 
heard, or  lamented  the  conversation. 

Dinner  being  concluded,  and  the  sofa  having  been  drawn 
round,  that  this  happy  holidajr  party  might  thoroughly  enjoy 
their  dessert  and  a  good  fire,  Mr.  Stanhope,  as  was  his  cus- 
tom, led  the  conversation  to  such  subjects  as  would  interest 
and  encourage  the  children. 

It  seemed  by  chance  this  evening,  to  turn  upon  the  cele- 
brated characters  of  History,  and  their  different  claims  to 
approbation  and  gratitude ;  and  each  person  present  was  re- 
quired to  bring  forward  their  favorite  hero,  and  to  endeavour 
to'  defend  him  when  attacked. 

This  "game,"  as  Annie  called  it,  pleased  the  children, 
as  they  were  well  read  in  Ancient  and  Modern  History.  Wil- 
liam especially  had  many  favorites,  and  fought  their  battles 
with  zeal  and  dexterity,  till  they  were  all  one  by  one  rejected. 

6 


42 


A  TALE  OF  THE 


Mr.  Stanhope  pointed  out  to  him,  that  neither  brilliant 
military  renown,  nor  superior  political  talents,  make  a  man 
truly  great,  when  he  uses  them  for  selfish,  or  unworthy  ends ; 
and  he  illustrated  this  observation  from  history. 

"  I  see,  sir,"  said  William,  "  that  a  man  to  be  truly  great 
must  have  the  good  of  others  in  view,"  and  he  instanced  se- 
veral, of  whose  patriotism  and  virtue  he  had  read  with  de- 
light. His  father  was  glad  to  find  that  he  had  so  just  a  sense 
of  what  was  admirable  in  the  human  character. 

His  mother  observed,  that  great  and  good  as  such  men  were, 
they  were  not  in  her  opinion  the  greatest  and  best.  "  Dear 
mamma,  how  can  you  say  so!"  exclaimed  the  children. 
"  Who  can  be  greater  or  better  than  such  characters  as  these  W 

"  Those,  my  dear  children,  who  are  not  drawn  into  their 
bright  path  by  the  intrinsic  pleasure  to  be  found  in  it — nor 
consecrated  to  virtue  from  infancy,  by  the  example  of  noble 
ancestors — nor  urged  on  by  the  stimulus  of  an  observing  and 
admiring  world — but  who  relinquish  their  own  ease,  happi- 
ness, and  even  life  itself,  to  a  strong  sense  of  duty,  and  the 
good  of  their  fellow-creatures." — 

The  children  perceived  their  mother's  distinction.  Mary 
directly  thought  of  the  conduct  of  Malesherbes,  who,  at  the 
utmost  hazard  of  his  life,  defended  Louis  the  sixteenth,  in  the 
day  of  his  calamity. 


CHRISTMAS  HOLIDAYS. 


43 


Mrs.  Stanhope  mentioned  Howard  the  philanthropist,  and 
as  the  children  had  never  heard  of  him,  she  gave  them  a 
short  account  of  his  life.  How,  for  ar -space  of  nearly  thirty 
years  he  had  spent  his  time  and  fortune,  and  health,  in  in- 
specting and  improving  the  state  of  prisons  and  hospitals,  in 
this  country,  and  on  the  Continent,  which  at  that  time  were 
such  frightful  receptacles  of  misery  and  disease.  How  he 
had  travelled  repeatedly  through  Europe,  undergoing  volun- 
tarily, prodigious  labour,  great  suffering,  and  the  continual 
risk  of  infection  in  the  steady  pursuit  of  his  benevolent  de- 
signs. And  how,  by  his  example  and  his  publications,  he 
produced  an  attention  to  the  subject,  and  an  improvement  in 
the  prisons,  throughout  Europe. 

William  and  his  sisters  were  extremely  interested  in  the 
character  of  this  extraordinary  man.  And  they  agreed  in 
their  father's  observation,  "  that  Howard  was  one  of  the 
greatest  benefactors  of  mankind  that  ever  existed  ;  and  that 
before  such  self-devotion  the  noisy  deeds  of  military  heroes 
shrink  to  nothing." 

They  were  delighted  to  find  that  their  mother  knew  many 
particulars  of  Mr.  Howard's  private  history,  as  her  father  had 
been  intimate  with  him.  She  related  how  his  faithful  servant 
had  attended  him  through  all  his  wanderings,  performing 
even  for  him  such  offices  as  the  mending,  and  making  of  his 


44 


A  TALE  OF  THE 


clothes.  And  how  at  last,  Mr.  Howard  had  parted  from  him, 
because  his  two  last  journeys  were  directed  chiefly  to  laza- 
rettos, and  other  places  where  the  plague  prevailed,  and  where 
he  did  not  consider  himself  justified  to  take  even  a  servant. 
"He  died,"  continued  she,  "of  a  malignant  fever,  at  Cherson, 
on  the  Black  sea,  without  a  friend  near  him  to  perform  the 
last  offices  of  humanity,  aged  sixty-three.  A  statue  has  been 
placed  in  St.  Paul's  to  his  memory,  and  I  believe  a  few  years 
back,  a  monument  was  erected  on  the  spot  where  he  was  al- 
tered, in  the  Crimea." 

"Oh!  Papa,"  said  Annie,  "take  us  to  see  his  statue  in 
St.  Paul's !  Is  it  like  him,  do  you  think,  Mamma  ? — "  I  be- 
lieve extremely  so,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Stanhope;  "I  have 
heard  my  father  say  that  it  was  the  exact  likeness  of  him, 
before  they  destroyed  the  tie-wig  which  he  was  accustomed 
to  wear,  and  substituted  the  present  head  in  its  place." 

"A  wig!"  exclaimed  Annie  with  a  look  of  dismay,  "did 
Mr.  Howard  wear  a  tie-wig?"  The 'children  all  rather  co- 
loured. Their  mother  continued,  "  I  have  often  heard  my 
father  describe  Mr.  Howard,  as  a  neat,  little  man,  in  a  tie-wig." 

16  Oh  dear,"  said  Mary  ;  "  he  should  have  been  a  tall  noble 
person." 

"  Why  so?"  said  her  father.  "  Many  great  men  have  been 
little  men ;  and  if  they  have  good  heads  and  good  hearts 


CHRISTMAS  HOLIDAYS. 


45 


within,  it  does  not  much  matter  if  they  have  tie-wigs  and 
snuff-brown  coats  without,  does  it,  my  dear?" 

11  No,  Papa,"  replied  Mary,  with  a  look  of  shame. 

"  If  I  had  known  Mr.  Howard,  as  Grandpapa  did,  how  I 
should  have  loved  him,"  exclaimed  Annie,  clapping  her 
hands.  Then  turning  to  her  mother,  she  added,  in  a  sor- 
rowful tone,  "It's  a  pity  we  know  no  such  people  now, 
Mamma." 

"  Perhaps  we  do,  my  dear,  without  being  aware  of  it — 
people  who  have  given  up  their  own  good  for  the  sake  of 
others — whom  the  world  neither  knows  nor  honours,  and 
whose  consciences  are  their  sole  reward." 

u  Your  mother  and  I,"  continued  Mr.  Stanhope,  "  have  the 
pleasure  to  know  at  least  two  such  persons." 

"  Have  you  indeed,  sir.  Who  are  they  V  asked  the  chil- 
dren, eagerly.  "  They  are  strangers  in  town,"  said  Mr. 
Stanhope  smiling,  "  but  we  expect  them  to  dinner  to-morrow, 
and  shall  present  them  to  our  dear  children  with  joy." 

"But  what  is  their  history?  do  tell  us,  dear  papa,"  said 
Annie.  Their  father  smiled  again,  as  he  looked  at  the  chil- 
dren, and  he  began  as  follows — 

"  The  hero  and  heroine  of  my  story,  (for  they  consist  of  a 
lady  and  gentleman — let  not  the  ladies  be  altogether  omitted 
in  our  list  of  worthies,) — were  in  early  life  intimate  friends, 


46 


A  TALE  OF  THE 


as  they  lived  in  the  same  village,  and  there  was  not  many 
years  difference  in  their  ages." 

"But  their  names,  their  names,  papa?"  cried  Annie. 
"  Gertrude  and  Stanhope,"  said  her  father.  " Stanhope?" 
said  William*  "  any  relation  of  yours,  father?"  No,  William, 
but  he  was  called  Stanhope,  after  my  father.  But  let  us 
proceed.  Gertrude's  father  was  a  surgeon,  in  this  said  vil- 
lage, and  for  twelve  years  Gertrude  was  his  only  child.  At 
the  end  of  that  time  he  married  again,  and  was  blessed  with 
five  children  more.  Bat  his  life  was  not  prolonged,  that  he 
might  enjoy  this  blessing.  He  died  suddenly  when  Ger- 
trude was  only  eighteen,  and  his  wife  hardly  survived  him 
six  months.  Thus  was  Gertrude  left  with  these  five  chil- 
dren dependent  upon  her  care  and  bounty,  for  her  father  had 
left  no  property,  and  she  had  nothing  to  depend  upon,  but  the 
small  fortune  which  her  own  mother  had  left  her.  She 
considered  them  as  a  sacred  trust,  and  she  resolved  to  devote 
her  time,  talents,  and  fortune  to  them.  Young,  handsome? 
and  beloved  as  she  was,  she  put  aside,  once  and  for  ever, 
every  personal  indulgence,  every  selfish  wish,  that  might  in- 
terfere with  the  object  to  which  she  devoted  herself. 

Such  conduct  insured  the  love  and  admiration  of  all  who 
knew  her,  and  her  earliest  friend  was  not  the  last  to  respect 
and  approve  it.    He  had  settled  as  successor  to  her  dear  fa- 


CHRISTMAS  HOLIDAYS. 


47 


ther,  so  that  he  had  constant  opportunities  of  observing  her. 
She  indeed  made  him  an  adviser  in  all  her  plans,  and  found 
him  a  comforter  in  all  her  difficulties.  The  attachment  which 
subsisted  between  them  was  of  the  purest  and  the  strongest 
kind. — It  commenced  with  infancy,  and  was  strengthened 
by  similarity  of  principles. 

But  Gertrude  and  Stanhope  soon  discovered  that  this  too 
must  be  sacrificed  to  their  duty.  Gertrude's  fortune  was 
hardly  sufficient  to  support  and  educate  the  children,  and  it 
was  essential  that  her  whole  time  and  thoughts  should  be 
directed  to  their  care  and  education,  and  to  the  economizing 
of  her  small  means.  Stanhope,  young  and  inexperienced, 
could  not  for  years  expect  to  obtain  from  his  profession,  an 
income  such  as  would  support  a  family. 

They  submitted  to  their  circumstances  with  resignation. 
Gertrude  silently  and  patiently  pursued  a  task,  which  now 
had  become  her  only  pleasure. — Stanhope  sailed  for  New 
Orleans,  where  prospects  of  success  opened  to  him.  In  this 
miserable  and  unhealthy  place  he  resided  for  twenty  years, 
never  shrinking  from  his  dangerous  duty  at  the  worst  of  sea- 
sons, but  fearlessly  administering  comfort  to  the  deserted  sick 
and  dying.  Often  and  often,  during  the  prevalence  of  the 
yellow  fever,  did  he,  with  tender  solicitude,  perform  the  part 
of  physician,  friend,  clergyman,  nurse,  and  executor ;  stand- 


48 


A  TALE  OF  THE 


ing  up  to  his  knees  in  water  in  the  burial-ground,  to  read 
the  burial  service  over  those  whom  no  human  power  could 
save: — and  returning  into  the  deserted  city  to  contribute  (as 
far  as  kind  particulars  and  consoling  words  could  do)  to  the 
comfort  of  mourning  friends,  across  the  wide  Atlantic.  His 
life  was  spared,  amidst  such  universal  mortality,  and  it  is 
now  twelve  years  since  he  returned  to  his  native  country. 
He  found  his  earliest  friend  surrounded  by  the  love  and  re- 
spect of  all  who  enjoyed  her  society ;  with  her  brothers  ad- 
vantageously settled,  and  her  sisters  well  married.  There 
no  longer  existed  any  obstacle  to  their  union ;  and  happy  in 
the  rational  pleasures  and  pursuits  of  their  retirement,  this  is 
the  first  time  they  have  ventured  into  the  gay  world.  I  hope 
that  when  they  return,  tired  of  the  follies  of  fashion  and  the 
heartlessness  of  society,  they  will  be  able  to  say,  <£  at  least  we 
have  found  one  family  who  could  estimate  and  remember  old 
friends." 

"  Oh  they  shall !  they  shall !  we  love  them  dearly  already," 
exclaimed  Mary.  "  Oh !  that  to-morrow  were  come,"  said 
her  sister. 

To-morrow  came — though  not  so  fast  as  the  children  might 
desire.  And  at  five  o'clock  the  party  was  assembled  round 
the  drawing-room  fire,  on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation. 

"  Mamma,"  said  William,  "  I  cannot  imagine  why  you 


CHRISTMAS  HOLIDAYS. 


told  Ravenscroft  not  to  light  the  lamp  1 — you  generally  have 
it  lighted  before  dinner,  have  you  not,  ma'am  ? — We  shall 
not  be  able  to  see  these  dear  delightful  people. — Do  stir  the 
fire,  Mary,  it  is  extremely  dark." — 

"Light  enough  to  see  old  friends,"  said  Mr.  Stanhope. 
At  that  instant  came  the  longed  for  "  knock  and  ring,"  and 
in  a  short  time  Ravenscroft  threw  open  the  drawing  room 
door  and  announced  

"  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Lockett !" 


7 


50 


ON  VISITING  THE  SILVAN  COTTAGE, 

INHABITED  BY  MISS  HANNAH  MORE  AND  HER  SISTERS,  179L 


By  Anna  Seward. 


Fair,  silent  scene,  soft  rising  in  the  vale, 
By  mountains  guarded  from  the  stormy  gale  ! 
Long  'mid  thy  sloping  lawn,  and  winding  glade. 
And  the  mossed  concave  of  thy  cool  arcade, 
Be  seen,  in  health  and  peace,  the  virgin  train 
Led  by  the  boast  of  Bristol's  tuneful  plain ; 
Where  Genius  oft  has  fed  its  rising  fires, 
Rolled  the  'rapt  eye,  and  struck  the  golden  wires. 
Bristol,  that  hears  her  More's  distinguished  name 
In  echoes  wafted  from  the  shrines  of  Fame  : 
On  whose  mild  brow  she  sees  gay  laurels  twine, 
Wove  by  the  liberal  hands  of  all  the  Nine, 
Enwreathed  with  Charity's  assuasive  balm, 
And  Faith  and  Piety's  immortal  palm. 


ON  VISITING  THE  SILVAN  COTTAGE. 


51 


Friends  to  the  friendless,  by  your  cares  benign, 
On  infant  minds  religious  lustres  shine, 
That  else  in  lightless  ignorance  must  stray 
Where  guilt's  dark  snares  penurious  youth  betray. 
Ye  bright  examples  of  an  heedless  age, 
Ye  true  disciples  of  the  sacred  page, 
Oh,  may  your  virtues  make  our  just  desire 
To  live  like  you — to  be  what  we  admire ! 

I  was  permitted  to  copy  this  interesting  little  poem  from  the  "autograph" 
collection  of  the  excellent  and  honoured  Jady,  who,  nearly  half  a  century  ago, 
formed  the  subject  of  Miss  Seward's  verses.  The  time  I  had  the  enviable 
privilege  of  spending  with  Mrs.  Hannah  More  will  form,  to  the  latest  moment 
of  my  existence,  one  of  the  most  delightful  recollections  my  mind  is  capable 
of  retaining.  As  I  hope,  at  a  future  period,  to  give  my  young  friends  some 
short  sketch  of  the  most  illustrious  woman  that 

"  Ever  lived  in  the  tide  of  time," 
any  further  remarks  upon  the  subject  may  be  postponed. 

A.M.  H. 


52 


THE  MORNING  SONG. 


By  Allan  Cunningham. 


I. 

Oh,  come  !  for  the  lily 
Is  white  on  the  lea ; 

Oh,  come !  for  the  wood-doves 
Are  paired  on  the  tree  : 

The  lark  sings  with  dew- 
On  her  wings  and  her  feet ; 

The  thrush  pours  its  ditty, 
Loud,  varied,  and  sweet : 

We  will  go  where  the  twin-hares 
Mid  fragrance  have  been, 

And  with  flowers  I  will  weave  thee 
A  crown  like  a  queen. 

ii. 

Oh,  come !  hear  the  throstle 

Invites  you  aloud : 
And  soft  comes  the  plover's  cry 

Down  from  the  cloud  : 


MORNING  SONG. 


The  stream  lifts  its  voice, 

And  yon  lily's  begun 
To  open  its  lips 

And  drink  dew  in  the  sun : 
The  sky  laughs  in  light. 

Earth  rejoices  in  green — 
Oh,  come,  and  I'll  crown  thee 

With  flowers  like  a  queen ! 

in. 

Oh,  haste !  for  the  shepherd 

Hath  wakened  his  pipe, 
And  led  out  his  lambs 

Where  the  blackberry's  ripe 
The  bright  sun  is  tasting 

The  dew  on  the  thyme  : 
The  gay  maiden's  tilting 

An  old  bridal-rhyme  : 
There  is  joy  in  the  heaven 

And  gladness  on  earth — 
So,  come  to  the  sunshine, 

And  mix  in  the  mirth  ! 


54 


ANECDOTES, 

OF 

SOUTH-AFRICAN  BABOONS. 


By  Thomas  Pringle,  Esq. 


The  large  dog-face  baboon  of  South  Africa,  (Simia  Cyno- 
cepkalus,  Cercopithecus  JJrsinus)  is  known  to  -  naturalists 
from  the  descriptions  of  Sparrman,  Vaillant,  Burchell,  and 
other  scientific  travellers.  It  is  an  animal  of  considerable 
strength,  and  attains  when  full  grown,  the  size  of  a  very 
large  Newfoundland  dog.  It  is  covered  with  coarse  shaggy 
hair,  of  a  brownish  colour,  except  on  the  face  and  paws, 
which  are  bare  and  black.  On  level  ground,  it  always  goes 
on  all-fours,  like  other  quadrupeds ;  but  among  the  rocks  and 
precipices,  which  are  its  natural  refuge  and  habitation,  it 
uses  its  hind -feet,  and  hands,  somewhat  as  a  human  being 
would  do,  only  with  inconceivably  greater  boldness  and  agil- 
ity, in  springing  from  cliff  to  cliff,  or  in  clambering  up  the 
crags. 


ANECDOTES. 


55 


The  cynocephalus  is  not  believed  to  be  in  any  degree 
carnivorous,  but  subsists  on  wild  fruits  and  berries,  and 
principally  on  the  numerous  variety  of  edible  roots,  which 
abound  in  the  districts  it  inhabits.  These  roots  it  digs  out 
of  the  earth  with  its  fore-paws,  the  nails  of  which,  from  this 
cause,  are  always  short,  as  if  worn  down  by  scratching  ; 
in  other  respects  they  nearly  resemble  those  of  the  human 
hand. 

For  defence  against  its  numerous  and  ferocious  enemies^ 
such  as  the  leopard,  hyaena,  wild  dog,  &c,  the  cynocephalus 
is  armed  with  very  large  and  strong  canine  teeth  ;  and  when 
driven  to  extremity,  will  defend  itself  successfully  against 
the  fiercest  wolf-hound.  It  has  a  mode  of  grappling  its 
antagonist  by  the  throat  with  his  hands,  while  at  the  same 
moment,  it  tears  open  the  jugular  vein  with  its  sharp  tasks. 
In  this  manner  I  have  known  a  stout  baboon  despatch 
several  dogs  before  he  was  overpowered ;  and  I  have  been 
assured  by  the  natives,  that  even  the  leopard  is  sometimes 
defeated  and  worried  to  death  by  a  troop  of  these  animals. 
It  is  only  collectively,  however,  that  they  can  successfully 
oppose  this  powerful  enemy,  who,  in  many  of  the  mountain- 
ous districts,  subsists  chiefly  by  preying  upon  them,  catching 
them  just  as  a  cat  does  a  rat,  by  lying  in  wait  and  pouncing 
upon  them  unawares. 


56 


ANECDOTES. 


With  all  his  strength  and  capacity  for  conflict,  and  in 
spite  of  certain  evil  reports  that  are  circulated  to  his  disre- 
pute, the  dog-headed  baboon  appears  to  be  in  reality  a  very 
harmless  and  inoffensive  creature ;  making  allowance  for  a 
thievish  propensity,  which  he  has,  to  rob  gardens,  orchards, 
&c.,  when  he  can  contrive  to  get  at  them.  There  is,  indeed, 
one  story  told  at  the  Cape,  and  said  to  be  quite  authentic,  of 
a  party  of  these  cynocephali  carrying  off  an  infant  from  a 
farm  house  in  the  vicinity  of  Cape-town,  and  only  resigning 
it  after  having  been  hunted  for  a  whole  day,  by  a  nume- 
rous party  of  men  and  dogs,  over  the  tremendous  precipices 
of  the  Wynberg  mountains.  The  child,  however,  when 
recovered  was  found  perfectly  uninjured ;  and  perhaps  this 
extraordinary  abduction  (the  only  instance  of  the  sort  I  ever 
heard  of  in  the  colony),  may  have  been  prompted  rather 
by  the  erratic  affection  of  some  mother  bereaved  of  her  own 
offspring,  than  by  any  more  ferocious  or  mischievous  pro- 
pensity. 

But  however  this  may  be,  the  strong  attachment  of  these 
creatures  to  their  own  young,  is  as  unquestionable  as  it  is 
interesting.  In  my  rambles  in  South  Africa,  I  have  fre- 
quently witnessed  affecting  instances  of  this  attachment, 
when  the  inhabitants  pursued  them  from  their  orchards  to 
the  mountains ;  the  females  in  such  emergencies  returning 


ANECDOTES. 


57 


to  search  for  the  young  ones  they  had  lost  through  the  very 
midst  of  their  mortal  enemies. 

On  more  peaceful  occasions,  also,  I  have  often  contem- 
plated them  with  great  pleasure  and  interest.  It  is  the  prac- 
tice of  these  animals  to  descend  from  their  rocky  fastnesses 
in  order  to  enjoy  themselves  on  the  banks  of  the  mountain 
rivulets,  and  to  feed  on  the  nutritious  bulbs  which  grow  in 
the  fertile  valley  ground.  While  thus  occupied,  they  gener- 
ally take  care  to  be  within  reach  of  a  steep  crag,  or  preci- 
pice, to  which  they  may  fly  for  refuge  on  the  appearance  of 
an  enemy ;  and  one  of  their  number  is  always  placed  as  a 
centinel  on  some  large  stone,  or  other  prominent  position,  in 
order  to  give  timely  warning  to  the  rest  of  the  approach  of 
danger.  It  has  frequently  been  my  lot,  when  riding  through 
the  secluded  vallies  of  that  country,  to  come  suddenly,  on 
turning  a  corner  of  a  wild  glen,  upon  a  troop  of  forty  or  fifty 
baboons  thus  quietly  congregated.  Instantly  on  my  appear- 
ance, a  loud  cry  of  alarm  being  raised  by  the  centinel,  the 
whole  tribe  would  scamper  ofF  with  precipitation ;  splashing 
through  the  stream,  and  then  scrambling  with  most  marvel- 
lous agility  up  the  opposite  cliffs,  often  several  hundred  feet 
in  height,  and  where  no  other  creature  without  wings,  cer- 
tainly, could  attempt  to  follow  them ;  the  large  males  bring- 
ing up  the  rear-guard,  ready  to  turn  with  fury  upon  the  dogs, 

8 


58 


ANECDOTES. 


if  any  attempted  to  molest  them;  the  females,  with  their 
young  ones  in  their  arms,  or  on  their  shoulders,  clinging  with 
arms  clasped  closely  round  the  mothers'  necks.  And  thus 
climbing,  and  chattering,  and  squalling,  they  would  ascend 
the  almost  perpendicular  crags,  while  I  looked  on  and  watch- 
ed them — interested  by  the  almost  human  affection  which 
they  evinced  for  their  mates  and  their  offspring ;  and  some- 
times not  a  little  amused,  also,  by  the  angry  vociferation 
with  which  the  old  ones  would  scold  me  when  they  had  got 
fairly  upon  the  rocks,  and  felt  themselves  secure  from  pur- 
suit. 


59 


IMITATION  OF  CLAUDIUS. 

MORNING  LESSON. 


By  John  Bowring,  Esq. 


Come,  children,  I've  a  tale  to  tell 
Both  serious  and  surprising ; 

And  rub  your  eyes — and  listen  well — 
And  see  the  sun  is  rising ! 

And  did  you  ever  see  him  rise  ? 

For  'tis  a  glorious  wonder! 
He  every  morning  mounts  the  skies, 

And  every  night  sinks  under. 

And  know  ye  that  he  never  fails, 
But  all  the  world  walks  over, 

And  gilds  the  hills  and  glads  the  vales, 
From  Doneenak*  to  Dover? 

*  The  extreme  Western  point  of  America. 


IMITATION  OF  CLAUDIUS. 

He  travels  through  a  vast  unknown, 

Than  any  arrow  faster— 
But — can  a  chariot  go  alone 

Without  a  guiding  master? 

My  children  !  when  the  sun's  bright  wheel, 
Thro'  the  wide  heaven  is  rolling, 

O !  there  is  one  to  guide  it  still, 
Conducting  and  controlling. 

Upon  the  chariot  of  the  sun, 

There  sits  that  awful  being, 
Whose  path  is  light — whose  name  is  One — 

Unseen,  but  all  things  seeing. 

Tho'  far  above,  what  thought  can  reach, 

So  marvellous  is  His  power, 
It  gives  its  beauty  to  the  peach, 

Its  fragrance  to  the  flower. 

He  painted  the  Ephemerae's  wings, 

Who  sets  the  stars  in  motion — 
He  formed  heaven's  great  and  glorious  things, 

Who  pour'd  the  drops  of  ocean. 


IMITATION  OF  CLAUDIUS. 

The  ruddy  face  of  morn  He  streaks, 
He  makes  the  sun-beams  glisten, 

He  speaks — my  children !  when  he  speaks. 
Will  ye  not  joy  to  listen  ? 

His  works  are  loveliness  and  light, 
To  all  who  see  and  heed  them — 

His  words  are  beautiful  and  bright — 
Now — listen  !  while  I  read  them. 


62 


A  LITTLE  BOY'S  LETTER  FROM  LONDON. 


By  Miss  Jewsbury. 


O  dear  mamma,  what  a  great,  large,  wonderful  place  this 
is ! — as  large  as  a  million  villages  joined  all  in  a  row ! — I  do 
think  even  our  town  could  be  set  down  in  one  of  the  squares  ; 
and  if  a  hundred  streets  were  swallowed  up,  I  don't  think 
the  rest  would  miss  them.  I  am  very  sorry,  dear  mamma, 
I  did  not  write  sooner,  but  I  have  been  so  busy  all  day  that 
at  night  I  was  quite  tired ;  and  my  uncle  has  been  so  good 
to  me,  and  has  shewn  me  such  a  many,  many  things ! — and 
I  will  tell  you  now  what  I  liked  best.  But  first  of  all, 
dear  mamma,  pray  don't  fancy  I  have  forgotten  you,  or  my 
sisters,  or  my  pigeons  and  my  rabbits,  or  any  body ;  and  I 
think  Westbury  a  very  nice  place,  though  now  I  do  live  in 
London,  and  sit  up  every  night  till  ten  o'clock  and  sometimes 
later.  Don't  be  angry,  dear  mamma,  for  I  will  be  very  good 
when  I  come  home,  and  I  will  bring  you  a  gold  watch,  and 
Jane  and  Mary  a  parasol  a-piece,  for  my  uncle  has  given  me 


A  LITTLE  BOY'S  LETTER  FROM  LONDON. 


63 


three  sovereigns,  three,  mamma,  to  spend  in  what  I  like. 
Perhaps  you  know  that  we  have  got  a  new  King  now — he 
is  called  William  the  IV. — and  I  heard  him  proclaimed  at 
Temple  Bar,  where  the  City  gates  are,  and  they  were  shut ; 
and  if  the  King  himself  had  been  there,  he  could  not  have 
been  let  through,  without  knocking  and  telling  his  name 
and  errand ;  so  the  procession  did  so,  and  then  it  was  let 
through,  to  proclaim  that  the  Duke  of  Clarence  was  King. 
I  saw  him  yesterday  in  a  carriage,  but  I  did  not  see  that  he 
looked  any  different  from  what  he  did  last  year,  when  he 
passed  through  Westbury.  In  the  procession  there  was  the 
Lord  Mayor's  gilt  coach — you  may  tell  Mary  it  was  nothing 
but  glass  and  gold — and  the  heralds,  who  proclaimed  the 
new  King,  wore  something  like  waggoners'  frocks,  made  of 
stiff  gold  cloth;  and  I  heard  "God  save  the  King"  played 
by  fifteen  trumpets  altogether  ;  and  you  might  have  walked 
on  the  heads  of  the  people  as  old  nurse  says  ;  and  when  they 
shouted,  it  was  like  the  roaring  of  the  sea ;  and  my  uncle 
says  I  shall  go  to  Windsor  to  see  the  dead  King  lie  in  state, 
before  he  is  buried,  for  that  is  a  very  grand  sight  too.  Yes- 
terday I  saw  a  real  live  lion  eat  his  supper,  and  several  leo- 
pards, and  tigers,  and  panthers,  and  a  hyaena,  and  many 
other  animals  too ;  and  I  was  a  little  frightened  just  at  first, 
for  Exeter  Change  is  no  larger  than  our  church,  and  the 


64 


A  LITTLE  BOYJS  LETTER 


cages  stand  all  round,  and  don't  look  so  very  strong ;  and 
when  eight  o'clock  came,  all  the  beasts  began  to  grow  im- 
patient. First  there  was  a  growling  among  them,  and  then 
they  rubbed  themselves  against  the  iron  bars  of  the  cages, 
and  the  leopards  put  their  paws  through,  but  you  may  guess 
I  did  not  offer  to  shake  hands  with  the  gentlemen,  though 
their  skin  is  covered  with  pretty  spots,  and  they  jump  about 
like  grey-houds.  The  keepers  were  very  busy  dividing  the 
meat,  which  was  legs  and  shins  of  beef,  into  proper  parts  ; 
and  at  last  they  went  up  to  the  o]d  lion,  who  is  always  fed 
first — and  then  what  a  roaring  there  was  ! — I  quite  fancied 
I  was  in  a  forest,  only  I  felt  very  glad  I  was  not.  The  old 
lion  and  his  wife  had  waited  more  patiently  for  their  suppers 
than  any  other  animals,  but  the  keeper  teazed  the  old  fellow 
a  little,  just  to  show  us  what  he  could  do ;  and  when  the 
bone  was  flung  into  the  den — for  they  don't  feed  these  ani- 
mals by  holding  their  meat  to  them,  or  they  might  chance 
to  bite  off  a  finger  or  two  just  by  accident — -well,  when  the 
bone  was  flung  to  the  lion — oh,  mamma,  I  shall  never  forget 
his  eyes,  for  they  flared  just  like  two  lamps  ! — and  he  crouch- 
ed down  and  clutched  the  bone,  and  roared,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  take  it  back  if  you  dare  ;"  but  his  face  was  so  grand, 
it  made  me  tremble,  though  I  knew  I  was  safe — I  felt, 
mamma,  just  as  I  did  last  year  when  I  heard  the  thunder 


FROM  LONDON. 


65 


among  the  mountains.  I  shall  never  forget  that  lion  ;  there 
was  another,  but  he  was  more  snappish,  and  yet  did  not  make 
me  tremble  half  so  much.  The  leopards,  and  tigers,  and 
panthers,  took  their  meat  playfully,  but  it  was  very  terrible 
play — I  should  not  like  them  to  play  with  me,  I  know. 
The  laughing  hyaena,  poor  old  fellow ! — was  as  tame  as  our 
Neptune,  almost  as  stupid — he  let  the  keeper  plague  him, 
and  yet  never  grunted  or  grumbled ; — and  he  took  his  meat 
quietly  from  the  keeper's  hand.  The  panthers  had  each  a 
very  tough  beefsteak,  but  they  soon  managed  to  tear  it  to 
pieces,  and  then  lay  down  and  licked  their  lips  very  merrily. 
There  were  two  elephants,  not  fine  fellows,  but  very  funny 
ones :  one  was  let  out,  and  walked  down  the  hall,  and  rang 
a  bell  when  he  was  desired,  and  opened  his  mouth,  expect- 
ing, no  doubt,  that  something  should  be  put  in  it;  and  his 
trunk  reminded  me  of  a  large,  large  leech,  screwing  itself 
about,  and  sucking  hold  of  every  thing  within  reach.  It  is 
very  odd,  but  when  all  the  other  animals  were  roaring,  and 
jangling  the  bars  of  their  cages,  I  thought  that  if  they  had 
broken  loose,  I  should  have  run  to  the  elephants  to  protect 
me,  and  I  think  they  would,  though  they  were  very  ugly. 
After  the  animals  had  been  fed,  the  pelicans  were  let  out, 
and  they  scuffled  up,  flap,  fiaping  their  wings,  just  like  great 
geese.    They  had  each  about  three  dozen  small  fish  put  in 

9 


66  A  LITTLE  BOY'S  LETTER 

a  bucket  of  water,  and  they  scooped  them  out  as  fast  as  I 
could  count,  for  their  bills  are  half  a  yard  long,  and  the 
bottom  one  that  has  a  bag  to  it  is  just  like  a  shrimper's  net. 
They  made  every  one  laugh  heartily.  And  afterwards  I  saw 
the  snakes ;  they  are  kept  in  boxes,  and  wrapped  up  in  flan- 
nel, like  little  babies :  but  I  am  sure  you  will  be  tired,  so  I 
will  tell  you  all  about  the  birds  and  monkeys  another  time, 
and  about  the  Zoological  Garden,  which  I  like  better  than 
Exeter  Change,  because  the  poor  things  must  be  happier  in 
fresh  air,  though  many  of  them  were  starved  to  death  last 
winter.  And,  mamma,  I  have  seen  the  Tower.  I  can't 
awhile  tell  you  all  the  history  of  it,  but  very  likely  you  know 
that  it  stands  upon  twelve  acres  of  ground  within  the  walls, 
and  that  before  it  was  used  as  a  prison,  it  was  a  palace  ;  and 
that  now  it  is  only  a  curiosity,  but  it  is  very  curious  indeed. 

I  liked  the  armouries  every  one ;  but  especially  that  were 
many  of  our  old  kings  are,  not  they  themselves,  I  mean,  but 
their  armour,  which  looks  just  like  them,  with  spears  held  in 
the  iron  gloves,  as  if  they  were  hands ;  and  then  I  liked 
Queen  Elizabeth  in  her  white  satin  petticoat,  with  another 
steel  petticoat  over  it,  the  dress,  they  say,  she  wore  at  Tilbury 
Fort ;  and  I  liked  very,  very  much  the  armoury  where  guns, 
and  swords,  and  pistols,  are  fixed  against  the  walls,  so  as  to 
look  like  beautiful  stars,  and  suns,  and  half-moons.    I  could 


FROM  LONDON. 


67 


hardly  remember  that  such  beautiful  shining  things  were, 
after  all,  only  meant  to  kill  people  with,  and  that  one  ought 
to  admire  spades  and  ploughs  more.  But  the  jewel  office, 
mamma ! — I  wonder  what  Sinbad  or  Aladdin  would  have 
said  to  such  a  show  as  this ! — I  saw  the  new  crown,  made 
for  George  the  IV.,  and  it  shone  like  a  bed  of  tulips ;  dia- 
monds, pearls,  rubies,  and  a  sapphire  "  of  the  purest  and 
deepest  azure,"  as  the  book  says — and  azure  means  blue, 
mamma, — and  the  ancient  ruby  that  the  Black  Prince  wore 
at  Cressy  and  Agincourt ;  and  I  thought  what  a  nice  brooch 
it  would  make  you  ; — and  I  saw  the  five  sceptres ;  and  the 
gold  swords  of  justice,  which,  of  course,  won't  cut ;  and  the 
bracelets  and  the  spurs  that  the  King  wears  when  he  is 
crowned  ;  and  a  hundred  other  things  that  dazzled  my  eyes 
to  look  at. 

I  have  also  heard  a  musical  instrument ;  my  uncle  calls 
it  the  musical  mountain,  but  its  real  name  is  the  Apollonicon, 
played  by  a  steam  engine ;  some  of  its  sounds  made  me 
think  of  the  roar  of  the  lion,  but  some  of  its  tunes  were  very 
soft,  softer  than  your  piano. 

My  uncle  has  taken  me  to  some  exhibitions,  but  I  don't 
understand  pictures,  though  I  am  nine  years  old.  I  liked 
Sir  Thomas  Lawrence's  portraits  of  the  kings,  and  generals, 
and  people,  for  I  saw  them  lighted  up  with  gas,  and  the  light 


68 


A  LITTLE  BOY'S  LETTER 


made  the  uniforms  look  very  beautiful ;  and  I  thought  our 
own  George  IV.  looked  more  like  a  king  than  all  the  rest  of 
the  kings,  and  even  emperors,  that  were  hung  up  with  him, 
though,  in  one  picture,  he  had  not  half  so  much  gold  lace 
upon  his  clothes.  I  have  been  to  the  Thames  Tunnel,  a  road 
that  is  being  dug  under  the  river  Thames ;  and  as  it  will  be 
always  dark  because  of  being  under  ground,  lamps  will  al- 
ways be  lighted.  It  made  me  shiver  rather,  just  as  if  I  was 
walking  into  a  vault ;  and  it  was  strange  to  think  that  a 
river  was  rolling  over  your  head,  and  ships  sailing  over  your 
head,  and  steam  vessels  and  boats,  all  over  your  head. 

I  have  been  to  see  the  Suspension  Bridge  at  Hammer- 
smith, which  means  a  bridge  hung  up  in  the  air;  but  not 
hung  upon  nothing,  for  the  chains  that  hold  it  up  go  through 
two  great  stone  archways,  that  are  reared  a  good  height : 
altogether,  it  looks  something  like  two  cat-gallowses,  with  a 
plank  lying  between.  Every  time  a  carriage  goes  over,  the 
bridge  shakes  like  a  leaf,  but  it  is  quite  fast ;  and  when  you 
stand  underneath,  and  a  carriage  goes  over,  the  sound  is  ex- 
actly like  thunder  at  a  distance. 

At  the  new  London  Bridge  they  are  building,  you  are  ob- 
liged to  pay  a  shilling  to  walk  over  and  look  at  it,  but  the 
money  goes  to  help  such  of  the  workmen  as  get  hurt  at  their 
work ;  and  the  man  who  collects  it  fought  at  the  battle  of 


FROM  LONDON. 


69 


Waterloo,  and  had  his  hand  crushed  while  building  the 
Waterloo  bridge,  and  now,  because  his  hand  was  obliged  to 
be  cut  offj  he  takes  the  money  with  an  iron  hook  instead — so 
I  did  not  grudge  my  shilling,  that  is,  my  uncle  did  not 
grudge  it  for  me. 

I  have  seen  Saint  Paul's  Cathedral,  and  it  is  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  long,  and  it  was  thirty-five  years  in  building,  and 
the  hours  on  the  great  clock  are  marked  in  figures  two 
feet  long,  and  the  great  clock  itself  measures  nineteen 
yards  round  ;  and  from  the  floor  up  to  the  ball  at  the  tip  top 
of  the  dome,  are  six  hundred  and  sixteen  steps,  more  than 
enough  to  tire  one  pair  of  legs,  I  should  think ;  and  the  great 
bell,  that  only  tolls  when  the  king  and  queen,  and  a  few 
other  people,  die,  can  be  heard  twenty  miles  off:  and  the 
whispering  gallery  brings  whatever  is  whispered  on  one  side, 
close  to  your  ear  on  the  other ;  and  when  a  door  is  shut  op- 
posite to  you,  it  makes  a  noise  like  cannonading.  And  Lord 
Nelson  lies  buried  in  the  tomb  that  Cardinal  Wolsey  intended 
for  himself,  and  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  he  deserved  it  much 
better. 

My  uncle  was  so  good  as  to  get  me  a  ticket  to  go  to  Saint 
Paul's,  when  the  children  of  all  the  charity-schools  sit  up  in 
the  dome,  and  sing ;  there  were  ten  thousand  of  them,  and 
it  made  me  giddy  to  look  up  at  them,  for  they  seemed  to  be 


70  A  LITTLE  BOY'S  LETTER  FROM  LONDON. 

sitting  up  in  heaven  ;  and  when  they  burst  out  in  the  hun- 
dredth psalm,  it  seemed  like  heaven  really — and  I  felt  sick, 
but  I  liked  it  very  much.  And,  dear  mamma,  I  am  tired, 
and  my  pen  is  split,  and  I  have  not  got  another ;  and  I  have 
taken  two  whole  wet  days  to  write  this  letter,  but  I  hope  you 
will  like  it,  and  Mary  and  Jane  too. 

I  have  seen  many,  many  other  things, — the  Colosseum, 
and  the  Dioramas,  and  the  Panoramas  and  the  Parks,  and 
Kensington  Gardens,  and  Richmond,  and  I  have  sailed  on 
the  Thames  in  a  wherry ;  and  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  have  worn 
out  my  new  shoes,  and  spoiled  my  best  jacket — for  one  does 
so  wear  out  clothes  in  London  ! — But  I  hope,  dear  mamma, 
to  make  you  and  my  uncle  amends,  by  getting  on  with  my 
Latin  ;  and  I  remain,  with  love  to  my  sisters,  and  every  body, 
Your  affectionate  and  dutiful  son, 

George  Merton. 

P.S.  Please  excuse  blots. 
London,  June  30,  1830. 


71 


CHILDREN  AT  PLAY. 


By  William  Howitt. 


Up  in  the  morning  as  soon  as  the  lark, 

Late  in  the  evening,  when  falleth  the  dark, 

Far  in  the  moorland,  or  under  the  tree, 

Come  the  sweet  voices  of  children  to  me. 

I  am  an  old  man — my  hair  it  is  grey, 

But  I  sit  in  the  sunshine  to  watch  you  at  play, 

And  a  kindlier  current  doth  run  through  my  vein, 

And  I  bless  you,  bright  creatures !  again  and  again. 

I  rejoice  in  your  sports,— in  the  warm  summer  weather, 
With  hand  locked  in  hand,  when  ye' re  striving  together; 
But  I  see  what  you  see  not — the  sorrow  and  strife, 
Of  the  years  that  will  come,  in  the  contest  of  life ; — 
For  I  am  an  old  man — and  age  looketh  on 
To  the  time  that  will  be — from  the  time  that  is  gone — 
But  you,  blessed  creatures  !  you  think  not  of  sorrow, 
Your  joy  is  to-day,  and  ye  have  no  to-morrow  ! 


72 


CHILDREN  AT  PLAY. 


Aye,  sport  ye — and  wrestle — be  glad  as  the  sun, 
And  lie  down  to  rest  when  your  pastime  is  done,. 
For  your  dreams  are  of  sunshine,  of  blossoms  and  dew, 
And  the  God  of  the  blessed  doth  watch  over  you, 
And  the  angels  of  heaven  are  missioned  to  keep 
Unbroken  the  calm  of  your  sealed  sleep ; — 
And  an  old  man's  blessing  doth  on  ye  dwell 
The  whole  day  long — and  so  fare-ye-well. 


73 


THE  LOST  GIRL; 

OR, 

INDIAN  GRATITUDE. 

"  What  will  become  of  me  ! — the  sun  is  going  down — the 
snow  is  falling.  Oh  my  dear  father  and  mother,  I  shall  never 
see  you  again." 

Such  was  the  exclamation  of  Lucy  Johnson,  as,  overcome 
by  fatigue  and  cold,  she  sat  down  upon  a  fallen  tree  in  the 
forest,  and  wept  bitterly.  She  was  alone,  and  knew  not 
whither  to  turn  to  find  shelter  and  protection. 

In  company  with  a  number  of  his  neighbours,  Mr.  John- 
son had  emigrated  from  one  of  the  New  England  states, 
and  with  his  family,  consisting  of  a  wife  and  daughter,  had 
chosen  a  residence  on  a  spot  of  singular  beauty,  upon  the  banks 
of  the  Mohawk,  at  about  sixty  miles  from  its  mouth.  The 
banks  of  that  river  were  then,  as  well  as  they  are  now,  re- 
markable for  their  fertility  and  beauty.  Crops  were  raised 
from  the  cleared  land,  almost  without  the  trouble  of  plough- 

10 


74 


THE  LOST  GIRL. 


ing,  and  at  the  time  to  which  we  refer,  the  greater  part  of 
the  farmers  of  the  settlement,  had  gone  in  company,  to  con- 
vey the  product  of  an  abundant  harvest  to  Albany.  Among 
them  went  Mr.  Johnson,  taking  with  him  his  wife,  while 
Lucy  remained  at  the  house  of  one  of  their  neighbours. 
Early  in  the  morning  of  the  day,  upon  which  the  settlers 
were  expected  to  return,  the  remaining  inhabitants  of  the  vil- 
lage were  alarmed  hy  a  report,  that  a  body  of  Indians  from 
the  country  toward  Lake  Ontario  had  destroyed  several  of 
the  settlements  farther  back,  and  were  then  advancing  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  river,  to  continue  their  work  of  destruction. 
All  was  hurry  and  consternation.  The  terrified  inhabitants 
having  no  means  of  successful  resistance,  resolved  to  aban- 
don their  homes  and  fly  to  the  nearest  settlement,  which  was 
ten  miles  distant  in  a  southerly  direction.  Lucy  among  the 
rest  hastened  away  with  the  fugitives.  She  was,  how- 
ever, unused  to  travelling  on  foot,  and  the  rough  stony  ground, 
and  the  chilly  air,  (for  it  was  in  November,)  soon  disabled 
her  from  keeping  up  with  the  company,  who  were  already 
scattering.  By  degrees  the  party  became  separated  ;  and 
Lucy  at  length  found  herself  alone  ill  the  rniclst  of  a 
wide  forest,  to  escape  from  which  seemed  impossible.  Still 
she  walked  on  in  the  direction  which  the  rest  seemed  to  have 
taken,  and  hour  after  hour  passed  away,  and  she  was  still 


THE  LOST  GIRL. 


75 


wandering  without  coming  near  the  place,  where  all  the 
villagers  had  taken  refuge. 

Meantime  the  party  that  had  gone  to  the  city  were  re- 
turning home  again.  They  were,  perhaps,  anticipating  the 
comforts  of  a  domestic  fireside.  What  was  their  dismay 
then,  as  they  rose  over  the  hill  which  separated  them  from 
their  homes,  to  behold  them  in  ashes,  or  still  consuming,  and 
the  savages  dancing  and  yelling  with  frightful  contortions,  as 
they  drank  the  "fire  water,"  of  the  white  men.  Their  fami- 
lies might  have  been  cruelly  murdered,  or  carried  into  cap- 
tivity, yet  they  could  not  render  any  assistance ;  their 
numbers  were  too  small  to  attack  the  savages,  and  with 
heavy  hearts,  they  took  the  road  which  their  families  had 
previously  taken,  resolving  to  unite  in  defence  of  the  south- 
ern settlement.  Upon  arriving  there,  they  were  rejoiced  to 
find  that  but  one  was  missing ;  every  heart  was  gladdened 
but  Mr.  [Johnson's.  His  only  child — his  dear  Lucy  was 
gone,  no  one  knew  whither.  She  might  be  in  the  hands 
of  the  savages — she  might  be  wandering  in  the  forest,  to  die 
by  cold  or  hunger,  or  to  fall  a  prey  to  wild  beasts.  Mr.  John- 
son felt  that  this  one  stroke  had  swept  away  his  all;  for  he 
had  left  his  wife  nigh  unto  death  at  Albany,  and  he  knew 
too  well,  that  the  news  of  Lucy's  loss,  would  deprive  him  of 
his  companion,  who,  perhaps,  even  then,  was  enduring  all  the 


76 


THE  LOST  GIRL. 


agonies  of  apprehension,  for  the  fate  of  her  husband  and  daugh- 
ter. His  cup  of  affliction  was  full.  While  he  was  endeavour- 
ing to  nerve  himself  for  the  occasion,  one  of  the  few  friendly 
Indians  who  were  then  in  the  settlement,  stood  beside  him. 

tl  White  man  is  sorrowful,"  said  he,  after  standing  silent  a 
few  moments ;  "  let  Kawaga  know  it,  that  he  may  help  him, 
as  white  man  help  poor  Indian  when  him  sick." 

Mr.  Johnson  looked  up,  and  saw  an  Indian  of  the  Oneida 
tribe,  whom,  at  a  time  when  a  disease  was  raging  among  the 
tribe,  he  had  taken  home  and  restored  to  health,  by  means  of 
the  simple  remedies  with  which  he  was  acquainted.  An  In- 
dian never  forgets  either  an  injury  or  a  favor.  Upon  leav- 
ing Mr.  Johnson's  house  on  that  occasion,  Kawaga  seized  his 
hand,  and  the  stern  features  of  the  warrior  relented  as  he 
said,  "  Indian  never  forget — Indian  never  forget  good  white 
man."  Many  a  deer,  and  many  a  beaver  skin,  had  he 
brought  after  his  successful  hunting  expeditions,  and  left  at 
Mr.  Johnson's  door.  He  would  accept  of  no  reward.  "  White 
man  was  kind  to  Kawaga"  he  would  say,  as  he  turned 
round  and  departed. 

Mr.  Johnson  could  not  but  be  moved  by  the  kindness  of 
Kawaga,  in  thus  offering  to  assist  him  in  his  greatest  dis- 
tress. In  a  few  words  he  related  the  circumstances  of  his 
loss,  and  his  fear  that  Lucy  might  be  suffering  in  the  forest. 


THE  LOST  GIRL 


77 


"  Has  the  daughter  of  the  pale  face  gone  %  The  leaf  falls, 
and  the  cold  winds  blow,  but  Kawaga  will  find  her.  Before 
the  rising  of  the  sun  thou  shalt  again  see  thy  daughter." 

"  But,  kind  chief,  there  is  danger.  The  enemies  of  your 
tribe,  and  of  the  whites,  are  perhaps  even  now  coming  to 
attack  us  here.  You  may  be  taken  a  prisoner  and  put  to 
death." 

The  Indian  drew  himself  up.  "  Kawaga  is  brave — he 
fears  not  death.    He  will  lose  his  life  to  serve  his  friend.'7 

He  turned  away  with  the  indifference  which  an  Indian 
warrior  considers  it  a  merit  to  assume ;  and,  in  a  few  minutes* 
he  was  observed  to  enter  the  edge  of  the  forest  in  company 
with  another  of  his  tribe.  Every  one  in  the  settlement  were 
busy  in  endeavouring  to  fortify  themselves  against  the  anti- 
cipated attack  of  the  Indians ;  and  much  as  they  sympa- 
thized with  Mr.  Johnson,  they  could  not,  except  at  the  hazard 
of  their  own  lives,  render  him  any  assistance. 

Kawaga  and  his  companion  proceeded  in  silence,  each 
armed  with  a  bow  and  arrows.  Every  now  and  then  they 
would  stoop  to  examine  the  ground  and  the  fallen  leaves,  by 
which  the  sagacious  Indian  can  tell  not  only  when  persons 
have  passed,  but  can  also  discover,  in  many  cases,  whether 
they  are  white  men  or  Indians,  to  what  tribe  they  belong  if 
the  latter,  and  what  were  their  numbers ;  and  that  too  when 


78 


THE  LOST  GIRL. 


a  white  would  not  be  able  to  perceive  any  resemblance  to 
a  foot-track.  Guided  by  his  knowledge  in  these  things, 
Kawaga  proceeded  rapidly  on  for  some  time,  until  at  length, 
starting  in  surprise,  he  clapped  his  hands,  and  to  the  inquiring 
look  of  his  companion,  pointed  out  something  on  the  ground. 
The  Indian  gave  the  usual  u  Huh !"  of  acquiescence,  and 
both  immediately  walked  with  a  rapid  pace  toward  the  west. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  thick  snow  clouds  were 
moving  down  from  the  north.  The  air  grew  colder  and 
colder,  and  the  wind  whistled  shrilly  through  the  branches 
of  the  trees ,  and  Lucy  was  still  wandering  in  that  wild  fo- 
rest. A  few  berries  were  the  only  food  she  had  tasted  during 
the  day,  and  now  night  was  approaching  cold  and  cheerless, 
and  her  limbs  would  no  longer  support  her.  Her  hands  and 
feet  were  lacerated  by  the  briers,  and  as  she  again  attempted 
to  walk,  the  snow  began  to  fall,  and  the  benumbing  influence 
of  the  cold  rendered  her  completely  powerless.  She  felt  as 
she  sank  upon  her  knees  in  that  wilderness,  as  if  all  hope 
had  departed,  and  uttered  a  prayer,  that  if  she  must  die,  God 
would  comfort  her  dear  parents. 

A  noise,  as  if  some  one  was  forcing  a  way  through  the 
crackling  branches,  caused  her  to  start  up  in  alarm — and  Ka- 
waga stood  before  her. 

11  The  pale  woman  pray,"  said  he,  "  and  the  Great  Spirit 


THE    LOST    Gift  Li* 


I*. 


THE  LOST  GIRL. 


79 


send  Kawaga  to  find  her.  Kawaga  is  the  friend  of  the  pale 
faces.  Arise,  daughter  of  the  good  white  man,  and  return 
with  us  to  thy  father." 

Who  can  express  the  gratitude  Lucy  felt  at  being  thus 
saved  from  a  fearful  death  1  But  she  was  too  much  over- 
come by  the  cold  to  move ;  which  Kawaga  no  sooner  per- 
ceived, than  he  motioned  to  his  companion,  who  immediately 
gathered  a  few  dry  leaves  and  branches  together,  and  striking 
a  flint  stone  against  the  steel  head  of  his  tomahawk,  in  a 
moment  obtained  fire.  Lucy  was  soon  sufficiently  revived 
by  its  warmth  to  partake  of  some  refreshments  the  Indians 
had  brought  with  them.  In  a  few  minutes  they  had  prepared 
a  litter  of  the  branches  of  trees,  and  covering  it  with  one  of 
their  cloaks  or  blankets,  and  some  dried  leaves,  formed  a  con- 
venient couch,  on  which  they  placed  Lucy,  giving  her  another 
blanket  to  protect  her  from  the  cold.  They  then  lifted  it  be- 
tween them,  and  set  off  rapidly  toward  the  settlement,  where 
they  arrived  without  meeting  with  any  of  the  hostile  Indians. 

In  a  few  minutes  Lucy  was  with  her  father.  His  grati- 
titude  to  Kawaga  for  her  restoration  was  unbounded. 

"You  shall  stay  with  us/5  said  he,  as  he  seized  the  In- 
dian's hand;  "when  we  return  to  our  home,  and  eat  of  our 
bread,  and  drink  of  our  cup;  and  we  will  take  care  of  you, 
and  provide  for  you  in  your  old  age." 


80 


THE  LOST  GIRL* 


Lucy  ardently  seconded  her  father'  request.  The  Indian 
wavered  for  a  moment.  u  No,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  Kawaga 
must  return  to  his  tribe.  When  many  snows  have  passed, 
and  his  head  comes  white,  and  his  eye  is  dim,  then  will  he 
return  to  the  wigwam  of  the  pale  face  and  smoke  the  calu- 
met of  peace,  until  the  Great  Manitou  shall  tell  Kawaga  to 
lay  down  in  the  burial  place  of  his  fathers." 

The  Indian  turned  and  departed,  and  he  was  not  again  to 
be  found  when  search  was  made  in  the  settlement.  The 
night  passed  away,  but  no  attack  was  made  by  the  invading 
Indians,  who  were  alarmed  by  the  knowledge  that  a  strong 
body  of  troops  were  advancing  to  cut  them  off,  and  hastily 
returned  to  their  own  land.  The  destroyed  settlement  was 
soon  rebuilt.  Mr.  Johnson  resided  there  many  years,  happy 
in  the  possession  of  moderate  wealth,  with  enough  of  con- 
tentment to  enjoy  it,  and  of  a  wife  and  daughter  whom  he 
loved  as  his  own  life. 

Weeks  and  months  passed  away,  and  ten  snows  came 
and  departed,  and  Kawaga  returned  to  the  l:  wigwam  of  the 
pale  face."  It  is  needless  to  say  that  he  met  with  an  earnest 
and  hearty  welcome  from  Lucy  and  her  parents.  He  lived 
many  years  afterward,  and  when  we  last  saw  him  his  hair 
was  white  as  the  snows  of  winter,  and  his  eye  was  dimmed 
with  age ;  and  not  long  after,  to  use  his  own  expression 


THE  LOST  GIRL. 


81 


11  the  Great  Spirit  called  him  to  go  to  the  hunting  ground  of 
his  fathers  beyond  the  setting  sun." 

"  And  o'er  his  arms,  and  o'er  his  bones, 
They  raised  a  simple  pile  of  stones, 
Which  hallowed  by  their  tears  and  moanB, 
Was  all  the  Indian's  monument." 


82 


THE  ANEMONIE  AND  THE  CARNATION. 

(TO  ELIZA  IN  HER  TUTELAGE.) 


By  Edward  Walsh,  M.  D. 


Not  heedless  culture  e'er  bestows 
The  charms  that  deck  the  truly  fair  ; 

The  gem  its  finished  lustre  owes 
To  patient  toil  and  studious  care. 

Vain  fools  affectedly  admire 

Attractions  due  to  fashion's  hand  ; 

The  swelling  gourds  few  suns  require, 
But  oaks  a  thousand  years  demand. 

Those  intellectual  graces  seek, 

That  slowly,  surely  win  the  heart — 

That  beam  the  eye,  suffuse  the  cheek, 
Beyond  the  utmost  power  of  art. 


THE  ANEM0N1E  AND  THE  CARNATION. 

Scarce  had  the  tepid  vernal  rains, 

With  wild  Favonius  breathing  round, 
Unloosed  the  earth  from  icy  chains, 
And  strewed  with  pearls  the  verdant  ground 

When,  eager  to  secure  alone 

The  primal  honours  of  the  year, 
A  knot  of  Anemonies  shone 

All  gorgeous  on  the  gay  parterre. 

So  shine  at  balls  the  rising  belles, 
In  zones  of  purple,  gold,  and  green, 

Whilst  each  fair  envious  bosom  swells 
With  wishes  only  to  be  seen. 

Near  to  the  splendid  group  was  laid 

A  plain  carnation's  tufted  train, 
For  yet  no  starting  bud  betrayed 

The  future  glories  of  her  reign. 

The  gay  parterre  affect  surprise, 

Whilst  one,  installed  in  purple  pride, 

Addressed  the  stranger  in  disguise, 
And  thus  in  scornful  accents  cried : 


THE  ANEMONIE  AND  THE  CARNATION* 


"  How  dare  that  sedgy  weed  presume 
So  near  our  borders  thus  to  stray  % 

Vile  sod  ! — hence  to  thy  native  home, 
The  miry  pasture — hence  away  !" 

The  genius  of  the  dormant  flower 
Starts  at  the  chidings  of  the  fair : 

She  rose — and  rising  shook  a  shower 
Of  brilliants  from  her  fragrant  hair. 

"  Why,"  she  replies,  "  invidious  rail, 
Ere  Sol  my  virtues  gives  to  bloom  ? 

When  I  my  spicy  breath  exhale, 
That  boasted  bed  shall  be  thy  tomb. 

"  I  freely  own  thy  various  dyes — 
Selected  from  th'  aerial  bow — 

May  for  a  moment  charm  the  eyes, 
But  they  like  it  soon  cease  to  glow. 

"  For  virtues  that  to  me  belong 
To  Sol  be  all  due  praises  meet  j 

And  if  I  lead  the  floral  throng, 

Those  virtues  culture  makes  complete. 


THE  ANEMONIE  AND  THE  CARNATION. 

"  Enjoy  thy  being  whilst  you  may, 
Raised  by  the  gelid  breath  of  spring  ; 

A  longer  date  and  warmer  ray, 
To  mine  more  perfect  gifts  shall  bring. 

"My  matchless  tints,  my  form  improved, 

My  cordial  aromatic  soul, 
Esteemed  by  taste — by  fancy  loved, 

Shall  please  while  suns  and  seasons  roll." 

She  ceased — and  fragrance  breathed  around — 
The  gaudy  beauty  bowed  her  head ; 

Whilst  the  sweet  modest  sylphid  found 
The  covert  of  her  leafy  shed. 


86 


THE  BLOW  FORGIVEN. 


By  Mrs.  Opie. 


Two  very  dear  friends  of  mine,  first  cousins  to  each  other, 
reside  in  a  picturesque  cottage  in  Norfolk,  which  stands  in  a 
valley  surrounded  by  wooded  hills,  and  commands  from  the 
windows  a  view  of  the  sea. 

To  the  inhabitant  of  a  city,  the  country,  even  in  winter, 
offers  a  refreshing  variety.  I  should,  therefore,  eagerly  have 
accepted  an  invitation  to  visit  the  cottage  in  the  beginning 
of  the  year  1829,  even  if  its  possessors  had  not  been  dear  to 
my  heart,  and  congenial  to  my  taste. 

I  arrived  on  the  birthday  of  one  of  my  friends,  and  during 
the  evening  I  was  told  the  following  little  anecdote,  which 
pleased  me  so  much  that  I  committed  it,  not  only  to  memory, 
but  to  paper. 

The  ladies  were  in  the  habit  of  allowing  some  of  the  vil- 
lage children  to  come  to  the  cottage  every  day  for  instruction, 
which  they  themselves  communicated,  assisted  by  a  young 
girl  whom  they  employed  as  a  teacher. 


THE  BLOW  FORGIVEN. 


87 


"  Well,  children/'  said  the  elder  of  the  ladies,  entering  the 
school-room  on  her  cousin's  birthday ;  Here  are  some  pre- 
sents which  I  mean  to  give  you  in  honour  of  the  day  ;  shall 
you  not  like  to  receive  them,  and  particularly  on  such  a  joy- 
ful occasion  ?" 

"  O  yes,  Ma'am,"  was  the  general  answer;  but  the  young 
teacher,  looking  very  grave,  said,  to  the  lady's  painful  sur- 
prise, "  I  am  sorry  to  inform  you,  Ma'am,  that  Sarah  Anne 
N  must  not  have  a  present." 

Now,  Sarah  Anne  N  ,  from  being  some  time  in  the 

back-ground,  had  lately  become  one  of  the  best  and  most  pro- 
mising little  girls  in  the  school,  and  was  no  doubt  conscious 
how  high  she  stood  in  the  esteem  of  her  benevolent  instruct- 
ress : 

Dangerous  pre-eminence  ! — mischievous  consciousness  ! 

We  are  never  so  likely  to  err  as  when  we  fancy  ourselves 
raised  above  the  possibility  of  erring  ;  and  poor  Sarah  Anne 
had  been  good  so  long,  that  she  fancied  she  could  not  be 
naughty  again ;  but  she  had  erred  that  very  day,  and  greatly 
too. 

The  facts  were  these:  she  had  a  younger  sister  in  the 
school,  who  learnt  with  such  difficulty  that  she  had  been  in- 
duced the  preceding  day  to  carry  up  a  hymn  to  repeat  to  the 


88 


THE  BLOW  FORGIVEN. 


ladies  which  she  had  said  before ;  and  a  little  girl,  named 
Mary  Anne  H  ,  had  that  morning,  in  the  hearing  of  Sa- 
rah Anne  N  ,  reproached  her  with  this  breach  of  a  usual 

custom.  The  reproach  was  not  the  more  palatable  because 
it  was  true,  and  Sarah  Anne  N  ,  resenting  it  for  her  sis- 
ter, pushed  eagerly  forward,  and  gave  Mary  Anne  H  a 

hasty  blow. 

This  indulgence  of  anger,  though  rendered  excusable  in 
her  eyes,  probably,  by  the  motive  which  prompted  it,  was 
judged  sufficient  to  forfeit  her  right  to  the  present  in  store ; 
and  while  her  mortified  benefactress,  after  hearing  the  tale, 
was  forced  to  own  the  young  teacher  judged  rightly,  and 
was  considering  how  she  could  prevent  her  cousin's  birth- 
day from  being  clouded  over  with  a  discontented  face,  the  an- 
gry  girl  exhibited  no  signs  of  contrition,  but  sat  swelling,  as 
it  were,  with  a  sense  of  having  incurred  unjust  censure,  and 
a  belief  that  she  had  done  a  praiseworthy  action,  in  avenging 
her  sister's  quarrel. 

For  the  moment  all  traces  of  her  lately  acquired  goodness 
vanished  from  her  countenance,  and,  in  every  look  and  ges- 
ture, temper  reigned  triumphant. 

Just  then,  Mary  Anne  H  ,  who  had  been  absent  on  an 

errand,  entered  the  room  ;  and  my  friend  called  her  to  her, 
to  receive  her  just  reproof  for  having  taunted  Martha  N  , 


THE  BLOW  FORGIVEN. 


89 


for  an  action  more  the  result  of  weakness  than  of  indolence ; 
and  while  the  child  stood  abashed  and  penitent  before  her  she 
said,  "  Are  you  not  sorry,  Mary  Anne,  for  having,  by  your 
talkativeness  and  unkindness  towards  her  sister,  tempted  poor 

Sarah  Anne  N  to  do  such  a  wrong  action  ?" 

11  Yes,  Ma'am,  I  am." 

"But  what  did  she  do?  Did  she  really  give  you  a  blow?" 
"Yes,  Ma'am." 

"  What !  a  blow  ? — and  in  this  cottage  ?" 
u  Yes,  Ma'am." 

u  And  are  you  not  sorry  that  Sarah  Anne  N  ,  who  has 

been  so  good,  should  now  be  so  naughty?" 
"  Yes,  Ma'am." 

"  And  are  you  sure  that  you  are  sorry  for  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  Ma'am,  quite  sure." 

"  And  you  forgive  her  ?" 

"O  yes,  Ma'am!" 

"  Then  go  and  give  her  a  kiss." 

The  child  instantly  ran  up  to  Sarah  Anne  N  -,  who 

was  still  pouting,  and  swelling  with  rebellious  feelings ;  and 
not  only  kissed  her  burning  cheek,  but  threw  her  little  arms 
round  her  neck.  Poor  Sarah  Anne  N — —  could  not  resist 
this  appeal  to  her  best  feelings ;  she  impulsively  rose  and  re- 
turned the  embrace,  and  the  reconciled  enemies,  to  the  tear- 

11 


90 


THE  BLOW  FORGIVEN. 


ful  joy  of  all  the  children  present,  stood  sobbing  in  each 
other's  arms.  Bat  no  one's  satisfaction  equalled  that  of  my 
friend,  when  she  saw  how  well  she  had  succeeded  in  pre- 
venting the  birthday  of  her  beloved  relative  from  being 
clouded  over  by  the  necessity  of  inflicting  punishment. 

She  had  indeed  effected  still  more:  and  the  day,  so  dear 
to  all  who  have  the  happiness  of  living  in  the  circle  of  the 
cottage  was  distinguished  by  a  proof  of  the  judicious,  Chris- 
tian training  which  the  pupils  receive  there — "  since  to  err 
is  human,  to  forgive,  divine;"  and  two  of  the  objects  of  my 
friends'  benevolent  exertions  had  exhibited  an  instance  of 
subdued  resentment,  and  forgiveness  of  injury. 


91 


THE  NUT-CRACKER. 


By  Miss  Jewsbury. 


"The  Squirrel,  flippant,  pert,  and  full  of  play." — Cowper. 

His  home  was  once  the  forest  tree, 
He  leaped  from  bough  to  bough ; 

But  even  there  he  scarce  could  be 
More  frolicsome  than  now. 

When  free,  his  fare  must  oft  have  been 

Exceeding  poor  and  scanty ; 
Now,  if  there  is  a  fetter  seen, 

He  lives,  you  see,  in  plenty. 

And  pray,  is  not  that  shoulder  fair, 

A  standing-place  as  good, 
As  if  a  leafy  branch  it  were, 

An  oak-branch  of  the  wood  ? 

The  working  of  a  squirrel's  brain, 

Of  course,  I  cannot  tell ; 
But  I  should  guess,  nor  guess  in  vain, 

He  likes  it  full  as  well. 


THE  NUT  CRACKER. 

There  is  a  sparkle  in  his  eye, 
He  pricks  his  ears  with  glee ; 

Ev'n  by  his  tail  may  one  descry, 
A  happy  rogue  is  he ! 

Or  rather  was  ;  for  years  have  fled 
Since  he'd  his  portrait  taken ; 

Those  nimble  limbs  are  now  like  lead, 
Those  bright  eyes  will  not  waken. 

No  matter ;  in  no  cruel  cage  % 
He  lived — or  leaped  for  pelf; 

And  when  his  nuts,  through  very  age, 
He  could  not  crack  himself, — 

His  mistresses — each  merry  maid — 
Turned  nut-cracker  to  squirrel; 

And  when  he  died,  his  corse  was  laid 
Beneath  a  tree  of  laurel. 

Enough  of  him ;  but  not  for  me, 

Of  those  two  gentle  girls ; 
In  russet  may  their  picture  be, 

But  they  wear  silk  and  pearls. 


THE  NUT  CRACKER. 

I  saw  them  only  jester-night, 

It  was  not  out  of  door, 
But  in  a  room  where  lamps  were  bright — 

Bright  eyes  and  smiles  a  store. 

They  fixed  my  gaze  among  the  crowd, 

And  if  I  call  them  fair, 
It  will  but  be  to  say  aloud 

What  many  whispered  there. 

They  were  not  children — sat  not  now 

Upon  the  mountain-heather  ; 
But  sisterhood  still  marked  each  brow, 

And  still  they  sat  together. 

Their  looks,  their  music — smile  and  song, 

Awoke  delight  and  prayer ; 
And  as  I  left  the  glittering  throng, 

(I  was  a  stranger  there) 
Love  came  upon  my  spirit  strong, 

M  And  I  blest  them  unaware  !"* 


♦Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner. 


94 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE; 

OR, 

THE  CONFIDING  BOY. 
By  Mrs.  Hofland. 


u  What  will  become  of  me?  the  sun  Is  going  down,  the 
children  are  weary  and  hungry,  and  I  have  neither  food  nor 
shelter  for  them ;  would  I  had  remained  in  my  own  country 
and  perished  among  my  own  kindred." 

Such  was  the  exclamation  of  Janet  Ferguson,  as  she 
clasped  the  babes  in  her  arms  closer  to  her  breast,  and  pressed 
with  deep  emotion  the  hand  of  her  little  Sandy,  whose 
strength  was  failing,  though  his  spirits  were  unsubdued. 
Like  many  others,  she  had  been  driven  from  the  Highlands 
of  Scotland,  to  seek  a  far  distant  home  in  Canada,  and  until 
within  a  few  hours  had  never  repented  the  step  adopted 
by  her  excellent  husband;  but  sudden  misfortune  had  be- 
fallen her. 

Their  dwelling  in  the  New  World  was  chosen  in  a  spot  of 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  95 

such  singular  beauty,  as  to  compensate  for  that  magnificent 
scenery  remembered  so  fondly  by  all  those  who  are  born  in 
the  "land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood.1'  It  was  situated 
within  a  short  distance  of  the  river  St.  Lawrence,  at  that 
part  where  it  enriches  the  Riehlieu  Islands,  where  the  gene- 
ral temperature  is  mild,  the  soil  productive,  and  the  advanta- 
ges offered  by  the  country  concentrated.  So  profitable  had  it 
proved  to  the  industrious  farmer,  that  he  was  now  gone 
(with  several  of  his  neighbours),  to  the  great  fair  at  Mon- 
treal, for  the  purpose  of  selling  grains  and  furs,  which  had 
been  partly  purchased  from  the  native  Indians. 

The  inhabitants  of  this  new  settlement  called  their  village 
Benoni,  (child  of  sorrow),  yet  until  this  d&y  it  had  little  me- 
rited the  name,  but  the  arrival  of  an  old  man  journeying 
much  farther,  who  had  learnt  by  chance  that  a  tribe  of  In- 
dians was  on  the  way  to  attack  them  during  the  absence  of 
their  men,  placed  all  who  remained  in  a  state  of  the  utmost 
terror.  They  were  out  of  the  line  of  roads,  had  no  connection 
with  the  river,  at  a  distance  from  all  neighbours,  and  igno- 
rant of  the  way  by  which  their  foe  was  advancing;  but  of 
that  foe  every  one  entertained  the  most  lively  terror.  A  few 
only  of  the  red  men  (such  they  call  themselves),  had  found 
their  way  to  Benoni  for  the  purposes  of  trade,  and  from  them 
the  women  and  children  held  aloof,  for  they  had  heard  such 


96 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


terrifying  details  of  the  ferocity  of  this  people,  their  treachery, 
cruelty,  and  even  cannibalism,  that  the  bare  idea  of  falling 
into  their  hands  was  insupportable  to  them  all. 

The  sad  news  ran  like  wildfire  from  house  to  house,  and 
the  inhabitants  of  each  ran  out,  and  impelled  by  the  same 
fears,  soon  met  in  the  open  ground,  and  began  to  consult  on 
the  possibility  of  saving  themselves  and  their  little  ones,  for 
more  they  could  not  hope  to  effect.  All  their  cattle,  furni- 
ture, and  humble  wealth,  must  be  instantly  abandoned,  and 
it  was  further  deemed  advisable,  that  they  should  separate 
into  small  parties,  and  hide  themselves  in  the  trees  and 
among  the  rocks,  in  order  to  escape  from  those  merciless  sa- 
vages to  whom  their  homes  were  abandoned,  and  who,  in 
thus  dividing  them,  had  half  accomplished  the  ruin  they  me- 
ditated. 

Thus  situated,  Janet  wandered  forth  with  her  two  chil- 
dren, suffering  under  such  anguish  of  mind  as  few  even  of 
the  unhappy  can  conceive,  for  not  only  was  she  bereft  in  a 
moment  of  all  the  comforts  of  life,  but  she  was  parted  from 
that  beloved  husband,  whose  presence  would  have  consoled 
her,  and  she  did  not  know  whether  she  was  not  going  every 
moment  still  farther  from  him.  In  the  horror  and  confusion 
of  the  hour,  she  had  omitted  to  enquire  the  route  to  any  set- 
tlement, or  learn  if  any  of  her  neighbours  could  rejoin  each 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


97 


other  at  a  particular  spot — in  their  terror  they  had  been 
scattered  like  a  flock  of  sheep,  but  they  were  not  blest  with 
the  power  of  instinct  to  unite  again. 

Janet  had  dragged  her  weary  limbs  forward  in  the  dark- 
ening twilight,  sometimes  looking  from  side  to  side  in  hope 
of  discovering  a  distant  dwelling,  or  a  safe  resting-place, 
when  all  at  once,  upon  turning  a  projecting  knoll,  she  was 
startled  by  the  light  of  a  bright  fire,  around  which  were 
seated  a  number  of  Indians,  with  their  squaws,  (or  wives), 
and  little  ones.  The  sight  was  in  itself  so  surprising  and 
curious,  that  although  poor  Janet  was  sensible  these  were  the 
enemies  she  dreaded,  and  those  who  were  perhaps  on  the 
road  to  destroy  her  forsaken  home,  and  her  beloved  neigh- 
bours, she  stood  for  a  moment  to  gaze  upon  them. 

The  men  were  nearly  naked,  and  painted  in  such  a  gro- 
tesque manner  as  to  render  them  objects  of  horror  ;  for  being 
prepared  for  an  expedition,  their  heads  were  almost  covered 
with  vermilion,  and  their  ribs  marked  out  by  broad  black 
stripes,  whilst  their  hair  was  bristled  up  in  the  midst  of  the 
head,  so  as  to  increase  the  look  of  fierceness  natural  to  their 
stern  and  sedate  countenances.  The  appearance  of  the  wo- 
men was  much  more  prepossessing,  as  they  were  generally 
arrajred  in  cloaks  and  trowsers,  of  blue  cloth,  which  had  been 
purchased  at  Montreal,  and  as  they  sate  behind  their  hus- 

12 


93 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


bands,  and  appeared  to  wait  upon  them  as  servants,  it  struck 
Janet  that  they  were  civilized  and  gentle,  but  under  severe 
subjection  to  the  terrible-looking  savages  before  her.  Just  as 
she  was  turning  round,  to  retrace  her  steps  in  silence,  her 
little  girl,  who  had  been  slumbering,  awoke,,  and  terrified  by 
the  blazing  light  and  the  strange  objects,  uttered  a  loud 
shriek,  which  instantly  drew  the  attention  of  the  Indians  to 
the  alarmed  and  fugitive  mother. 

In  a  few  moments  Janet  and  her  children  were  surrounded 
by  the  Indians,  and  led  towards  their  fire,  and  since  all  re- 
sistance to  their  will  was  evidently  useless,  the  poor  woman 
very  wisely  appeared  willing  to  accompany  them,  and  to 
throw  herself  upon  their  mercy  in  such  a  manner,  that  if  they 
had  indeed  any  traces  of  humanity  in  their  dispositions,  it 
might  be  called  forth  in  her  behalf.  For  this  purpose,  she 
sought  eagerly  to  still  the  cries  of  her  affrighted  child,  by 
turning  its  eyes  away  from  the  objects  of  dread,  whilst  she 
whispered  to  her  little  boy,  in  a  voice  of  cheerfulness,  "  Sandy, 
my  man,  dinna  be  feared  o'  the  guid  folk  around  ye  ;  be  good- 
humoured  an  civil,  and  doubt  not  their  kindness :  it  is  fra 
them  your  dear  father  gets  the  fine  furs  an  the  sweet  honey, 
my  child." 

This  little  boy  was  naturally  courageous,  and  habitually 
obedient ;  his  father  had  very  wisely  taught  him  to  exert  his 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


99 


mind  (young  as  he  was),  by  sustaining  certain  hardships, 
and  practising  certain  privations,  which  rendered  him  manly, 
enterprising  and  enduring.  Poor  Sandy  had  been  hungry  for 
the  last  two  hours,  but  he  knew  his  mother  could  give  him 
no  food,  therefore  he  did  not  wound  her  by  complaints  which 
were  useless.  His  feet  were  sore,  but  since  he  could  not  be 
carried  by  her,  he  would  not  grieve  her  by  describing  his 
sufferings  ;  and  since  he  knew  she  always  told  him  the  truth, 
and  knew  what  was  the  best  to  be  done,  he  determined  to  con- 
quer his  own  fear  of  the  Indians,  and  rouse  himself,  notwith- 
standing his  weakness,  to  fulfil  the  wishes  she  had  expressed. 

In  consequence  of  this  resolution,  when  they  had  arrived 
at  the  circle  of  Indians,  he  directly  went  up  to  the  Chief,  who 
was  an  old  man,  seated  on  a  mat,  and  after  asking  his  name, 
he  sate  down  beside  him,  and  with  an  air  of  confidence, 
showed  him  his  swollen  feet,  and  informed  him  that  he  was 
hungry. 

The  chief,  in  a  few  words,  but  to  Sandy's  joy  they  were 
uttered  in  English,  informed  him  that  his  name  was  A  paeth- 
Yaali,  or  the  stranger's  friend,  and  as  such  he  gave  instant 
orders  to  his  squaw  to  feed  the  mother  and  her  young. 

Long  stripes  of  the  dried  flesh  of  the  reindeer,  and  the  In- 
dian maize,  compounded  into  delicate  cakes,  were  imme- 
diately placed  in  the  hands  of  Janet  and  her  famishing  babes  ; 


100 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


and  so  glad  were  they  to  receive  sustenance  at  a  time  when 
nature  craved  it  so  importunately,  that  they  fancied  they  had 
never  tasted  food  so  sweet,  nor  met  with  friends  so  kind. 
The  extraordinary  gravity  of  the  Indians  made  Janet  afraid 
of  speaking,  least  she  should  offend  those  whom  she  desired 
to  propitiate ;  but  her  little  boy,  refreshed  and  gladdened, 
crept  closely  to  the  old  warrior,  and,  with  all  the  endearing 
confidence  of  childhood,  thus  addressed  him,  despite  of  the 
tremendous  appearance  he  had  assumed. 

"  My  good  master,  Apaeth-Yaaii,  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you  for  my  good  supper  and  the  kindness  you  have  shewn 
to  my  dear  mother,  and  little  Janet.  I  shall  always  consider 
you  as  my  friend,  and  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  the  names 
of  the  rest  of  these  warriors." 

"  The  one  nearest  to  thee,"  replied  the  warrior,  "  is  called 
Split-log — the  one  now  standing  near  thy  mother  is  Red- 
jacket.  These  are  named  by  thy  own  people.  He  who  is 
now  advancing  to  us,  is  Nico-Mingo." 

"And  a  very  good  looking  fellow  he  is,"  said  Sandy, 
"  and  though  he  has  not  a  British  name,  I  like  him  as  well 
as  any  body  here." 

So  saying,  little  Sandy  by  a  strong  effort  arose,  and  ran 
to  the  Indian,  who  having  heard  his  words,  received  him 
kindly,  led  him  to  his  hut  or  wig- warn,  and  gave  him  the 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


101 


place  of  repose  so  necessary  for  him.  The  wants  of  his 
mother  and  her  child  were  also  supplied,  and  after  a  night 
of  profound  repose,  the  worn-out  family  awoke  to  find  them- 
selves in  the  midst  of  the  enemies  they  had  dreaded,  and  be 
sensible  not  only  that  they  were  uninjured,  but  most  hos- 
pitably entertained. 

Hour  after  hour,  and  day  after  day,  passed  on  for  the  fol- 
lowing week,  and  Janet  continued  as  if  spell-bound  with  the 
Indians,  who  laid  no  injunctions  on  her  will,  but  continued 
to  supply  herself  and  children  with  food,  and  to  receive 
her  attention  to  their  own  babes,  and  especially  her  kindness 
to  their  sick,  with  much  gratitude,  though  few  words  passed 
on  either  side.  Janet  still  in  great  awe,  and  considering 
herself  a  prisoner,  dared  not  rouse  their  anger  by  attempting 
to  escape,  which  was  not  likely  to  succeed,  and  even  if  it 
should,  "  might  she  not  meet  with  some  other  tribe  who 
were  less  kind  and  civilized  than  these  ?" 

In  the  mean  time  Sandy  made  himself  perfectly  at  home 
amongst  them — he  joined  the  women  in  weaving  mats,  the 
men  in  fishing,  listened  with  profound  attention  when  any 
of  the  orators  made  a  speech,  though  he  could  not  under- 
stand more  than  half  of  it,  and  when  he  was  permitted,  sung 
them  the  songs  of  his  country,  and  taught  their  children  the 
national  dance.    His  good  humour,  frankness,  and  courage, 


102 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


so  won  the  heart  of  Nico-Mingo,  that  he  offered  to  adopt 
him  as  his  own  son,  to  clothe  him  in  the  finest  skins,  tattoo 
his  whole  body  with  stars  and  flowers,  feed  him  with  the 
best  venison  and  the  purest  maize,  and  finally  to  instruct 
him  how  to  scalp  his  enemies,  and  endure  their  utmost  tor- 
ture, like  the  "  son  of  the  brave." 

To  this  generous  offer,  the  boy  replied  as  far  as  he  was 
able,  in  the  language  adopted  by  the  people  amongst  whom 
he  was  placed. 

"  Warrior,  you  have  given  me  food  when  I  was  famishing, 
and  rest  when  I  was  weary.  I  love  you,  and  I  desire  to 
handle  the  tomahawk  like  an  Indian,  and  to  brave  danger 
as  the  son  of  a  Chief,  but  like  you  I  love  truth  also,  and  it 
compels  me  to  say  that  I  desire  to  see  my  dear  father,  and  to 
live  in  my  own  home  above  all  other  enjoyments." 

"  Thou  hast  well  spoken,"  said  the  old  chief  Apaeth- 
Yaali. 

Nico-Mingo  and  the  rest  were  silent,  but  there  were  no 
symptoms  of  anger  in  their  manners,  and  when  Janet  retired 
for  the  night  as  usual,  she  did  so  under  the  belief  that  they 
had  forgiven  the  honest  assertion  of  her  little  Sandy,  though 
they  might  not  grant  the  request  which  was  couched  in  it, 
of  restoring  him  to  his  father. 

Soon  after  the  sun  arose,  Janet  and  her  children  were 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


103 


awakened  by  the  voice  of  Nico-Mingo,  who  thus  addressed 
his  sleepy  little  companion  : — 

"  Son  of  my  love,  arise,  behold  a  journey  is  before  thee." 

They  all  instantly  arose,  and  followed  their  conductor, 
who  proceeded  with  the  customary  silence  of  this  extraordi- 
nary people,  until  Sandy  gave  token  of  weariness,  by  taken 
hold  of  the  hand  of  his  guide,  and  casting  a  look  of  enquiry 
towards  the  wallet  girded  round  his  waist.  The  Chief  com- 
prehended his  wants,  and  sitting  down  on  the  first  green 
sward  near  them,  he  presented  each  of  the  party  with  suffi- 
cient food  for  breakfast — the  remainder  he  packed  up  with 
care,  for  the  Indians  are  always  frugal,  (having  great  dif- 
ficulty in  supplying  their  wants,)  and  this  he  placed  on 
the  arm  of  Sandy,  after  which  they  re-commenced  their  jour- 
ney. 

Janet  had  for  some  time  conceived  that  the  kind-hearted 
savage  was  leading  them  towards  Montreal,  but  as  that  was 
a  distance  of  at  least  sixty  miles,  she  could  not  suppose  one 
apparently  so  considerate  would  expect  that  she  could  walk 
all  the  way,  or  that  he  would  dismiss  them  in  a  district 
where  there  were  apparently  neither  roads  nor  dwellings, 
with  only  such  provision  as  so  little  a  boy  could  carry. 
Still  she  dreaded  making  enquiries  and  giving  offence,  and 
was  endeavouring  to  render  Sandy  the  medium  of  learning 


104 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


their  guide's  intentions,  when  he  suddenly  stopped,  and  after 
drawing  the  boy  closely  towards  his  bosom,  thus  spoke  : 

"  To  the  left  of  that  little  mountain,  you  will  find  the  blue 
stream  which  waters  your  own  dear  village  of  Benoni.  Re- 
turn to  it  and  remain  in  peace,  for  thy  father  even  now  is 
on  his  way  thither  in  alarm  and  sorrow.  Sandy,  take  thou 
the  last  embrace  of  him  whom  thou  hast  loved  and  trusted, 
and  who  for  thy  sake  promises  safety  to  thy  people." 

"  Do  not  go — do  not  leave  us,"  cried  the  boy,  "come  to 
our  cottage  and  eat  bread,  dear  Nico-Mingo;  my  father  will 
give  you  ale  and  beef,  my  mother  will  knit  gloves  and  stock- 
ings for  you,  and  I — Ah  !  I  will  love  you  and  sing  to  you, 
and  call  you  my  Indian  Daddy." 

At  this  moment,  Janet  thankful  for  all  she  had  been  de- 
livered from,  not  less  than  all  she  had  received,  warmly  se- 
conded her  son,  and  with  tears  protested  that  neither  he  nor 
his  tribe  should  ever  visit  Benoni  without  receiving  a  Chris- 
tian welcome. 

Nico-Mingo  answered,  "  I  believe  thee,  because  thy  child 
did  not  mistrust  us,  therefore,  when  the  leaf  falls,  and  the  cold 
winds  blow,  I  will  visit  the  door  of  thy  husband's  wigwam." 

The  Indian  departed,  and  the  steps  of  the  exiles  were 
quickened,  until  they, reached  the  clear  stream,  on  the  banks 
of  which  they  joyfully  pursued  their  way,  and  by  the  hour 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


105 


of  noon,  were  thankfully  sheltered  in  Benoni,  which  but  for 
Sandy's  courage  and  obedience,  would  now  have  been  a 
heap  of  ashes.  They  found  several  fugitives  returned,  who 
were  ready  to  expire  with  terror  at  the  sound  of  a  human 
voice,  but  had  yet  been  driven  by  want  to  re-enter  their  dwell- 
ings. Others  had  pursued  the  path  to  Montreal,  and  were 
bringing  thence  succour  which  was  no  longer  wanted.  With 
the  earliest  of  these  Sandy  Ferguson  appeared,  and  with  a 
joy  the  wretched  man  can  alone  appreciate,  found  unharmed, 
and  happy,  the  beloved  wife  and  children  whom  he  believed 
to  have  perished. 

When  peace  and  plenty  were  restored,  when  the  harvest 
had  been  gathered,  the  fuel  stacked,  and  the  leaves  were 
falling,  Sandy  said,  "My  new  daddy  will  come  soon,"  and 
his  prophecy  was  fulfilled,  for  as  Ferguson  was  returning 
late  one  night  from  his  labour,  he  found  a  red  man  seated  on 
the  outside  of  his  cottage  door. 

"  What  do  you  want,  friend  ?"  said  Sandy,  thinking  him 
one  of  the  traders  in  skins  whom  he  had  formerly  dealt  with. 

11 1  come  to  smoke  the  calumet  of  peace  with  the  pale  man 
who  is  father  to  little  Sandy." 

"Then  welcome,  thrice  welcome,  brave  Nico-Mingo,"  said 
the  farmer  as  he  led  him  into  his  house,  where  he  was  wel- 
comed with  ardour  by  little  Sandy  and  his  mother,  the  for- 


106 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


mer  exclaiming,  " 1  knew  he  would  come — you  know  I  told 
you  he  would  come — the  red  men  always  speak  truth,  and 
Nico-Mingo  is  the  best  of  them  all." 

"  Son/'  said  the  Chief,  "  I  come  to  thee,  and  to  thy  people, 
whom  thou  savedst  by  thy  confidence  once,  and  mayest 
again  save,  if  they  will,  like  thee  and  thy  house,  be  simple 
and  sincere." 

"  I  will  answer  for  all  Benoni,"  said  Sandy. 

"  And  I  will  confirm  his  words,"  said  the  father. 

The  Indian  ate  his  supper,  smoked  his  reed,  and  lay  down 
on  the  mat  provided  for  him,  in  token  of  reliance  on  this  pro- 
mise, and  the  next  morning  opened  a  treaty  of  commerce 
which  eventually  benefitted  alike  the  settlement  and  the  tribe, 
and  which,  at  the  instance  of  this  powerful  chieftain,  was 
named,  "  The  Treaty  of  the  Confiding  Boy." 


107 


FRANK  AND  HIS  KITE. 


By  James  Bird,  Esq. 


Little  Frank  had  a  small,  but  a  very  gay  kite, — 

Oh  !  he  deemed  it  a  beautiful  one  : 
It  was  truly  his  pet,  and  his  sole  delight, 

As  it  flew  up  the  path  of  the  sun. 

But  Frank  became  proud,  and  he  fancied  his  skill 

Was  sufficient  to  manage  a  larger : 
Just  then  his  rich  uncle  rode  over  the  hill, 

On  his  favourite  Waterloo  charger. 

"  Dear  uncle,"  cried  Frank,  "  I  perceive  other  boys 
Have  their  kites  which  are  six  fee.t  high, 

While  mine  is  the  least  of  these  juvenile  toys; 
Pray  tell  me  the  reason  why. 

"  O  give  me,  dear  uncle  !  a  very  large  kite, 
Like  the  one  that  so  buoyantly  flies:  — 

Look  !  look  !  what  a  grand  and  a  marvellous  sight 
It  now  forms  in  the  beautiful  skies !" 


108 


FRANK  AND  HIS  KITE. 


"Nay,  Frank,"  said  his  uncle,  "you  think  yourself  clever; 

The  huge  kite  which  we  yonder  can  view 
Is  above  your  control — you  could  manage  it  never ; 

It  would  fly  away,  imp,  with  you  !" 

Frank  did  not  believe  it — he  deemed  himself  wise, 

And  as  clever  as  clever  could  be  ; 
As  is  often  the  case,  in  their  own  dim  eyes, 

With  mortals  much  older  than  he. 

So  Frank  he  said,  "  No !  I  can  manage  it  well, — 

Buy  a  large  one,  dear  uncle,  I  pray 1" 
His  uncle  consented,  and,  sooth  to  tell, 

Bought  him  one  on  that  very  same  day. 

The  kite  was  magnificent,  stately  and  tall, 

And  as  wide  as  a  fishing  boat's  sail; 
On  its  top  shone  a  glittering  gilded  ball, 

At  its  bottom  a  long  white  tail. 

Then  Frank's  little  heart  swelled  high  with  pride ; 

He  exclaimed,  "Oh  !  to-morrow's  the  day  ! 
We  will  bear  you,  my  kite,  to  the  bleak  hill's  side  j 

I  shall  cap  all  the  boys  at  their  play  I" 


FRANK  AND  HIS  KITE. 


J  09 


Frank  rose  in  the  morn  with  the  light  of  the  sun ; 

How  knowing  he  looked  ! — how  arch  ! 
For  the  wind  had  its  blustering  song  begun, — 

'Twas  the  twenty-first  morning  of  March. 

The  wind  blew  stronger — the  house-top  vane 

Loud  creaked,  and  the  doors  did  clatter, 
The  yard-dog  howled  o'er  his  rattling  chain, 

For  he  wondered  what  could  be  the  matter, 

The  elms  and  the  oaks  all  roared — the  birds 

In  affright  left  their  favourite  tree : 
How  proud  was  Frank  !  and  how  proud  were  his  words — 

"Ho  !  this  is  the  morning  for  me  !" 

He  called  to  his  playmate  with  joy  and  delight, 

Bade  adieu  to  his  father  and  mother ; 
His  playmate  caught  hold  of  one  end  of  the  kite, 

And  Frank  he  caught  hold  of  the  other. 

Its  string  was  so  long  it  might  reach  to  the  sky, 
And  they  bore  the  great  kite  to  the  hill : — 

"Now! — now!"  exclaimed  Frank — "let  her  fly! — let  her  fly!" 
"  I  will !"  cried  his  playmate,  "  I  will !" 


110 


FRANK  AND  HIS  KITE. 


Away  went  the  kite,  like  a  bird  on  the  wing — 

Up  !  up  !  she  soared  higher  still ; 
And  Frank  felt  the  tightening  pull  of  the  string, 

As  he  stood  on  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

On  came  the  storm-blast,  strong  and  loud, 
And  the  kite  mounted  higher  so  fleet, 

To  quit  his  firm  hold  Frank  was  far  too  proud, 
Though  she  lifted  him  off  his  feet. 

Away  went  the  kite,  o'er  hedge  and  o'er  tree, 

And  away  went  the  boy,  too  bold ; 
And  now,  though  he  longed  on  the  fair  earth  to  be, 

Yet  he  dared  not  abandon  his  hold. 

Now  over  the  river,  that  flowed  through  the  vale, 
The  kite  hovered  the  space  of  a  minute  ; 

And  little  Frank  looked,  as  he  hung  from  its  tail, 
Like  a  gull  that  could  see  no  fun  in  it. 

The  kite,  as  in  scorn,  her  white  wings  flapped, 
While  her  sides  to  the  blast  did  quiver; 

Louder  it  blew,  and  the  long  string  snapped ; 
And  Frank — tumbled  into  the  river  ! 


FRANK  AND  HIS  KITE. 


Ill 


In  confusion  and  shame  he  crawled  up  the  high  bank, 

And  he  looked  like  a  half-drowned  rat ; 
And  he  heard  a  gruff  voice — "  Ho  !  ho  !  gallant  Frank  ! 

What  a  notable  feat  you've  been  at I" 

His  uncle  was  there,  and  his  finger  of  scorn 

He  pointed  at  Frank,  as  ashamed 
He  stood  hanging  his  head,  with  a  visage  forlorn, 

Like  an  imp  of  his  monkey-tricks  tamed. 

11  Frank !  Frank  !"  cried  his  uncle,  "  thy  folly  and  pride 

Have  exposed  thee  to  this  degradation  : 
What  an  ape  you  must  be  to  presume  thus  to  ride, 

So  high,  Sir,  above  your  right  station ! 

"  Remember  that  he  who  attempts  to  perform 
What  his  strength  and  his  skill  cannot  master 

May  meet  with  a  check  in  some  turbulent  storm, 
Which  may  end  in  a  wretched  disaster ; 

"  And  that  he  who  pretends  to  be  wondrously  wise 

Above  others — misled  by  ambition — 
May  find,  when  he  thinks  he  must  certainly  rise, 

That  he'll  fall  in  no  pleasant  condition!" 


112 


HOME. 

"So  when  in  childhood's  quiet  morning, 

Sometimes  to  distant  haunts  we  rove, 

The  heart,  like  bended  bow  returning, 

Springs  swifter  to  its  home  of  love. 
Each  hill  and  dale  that  shared  our  pleasures, 
Becomes  a  heaven  in  memory."  Thaarup. 

It  was  January, — the  snow  was  falling  thick  and  fast, — 
the  wind  blew  almost  a  gale,  and  every  thing  abroad  indi- 
cated one  of  our  longest  and  most  severe  New-England  storms. 

Many  a  time  had  Henry  Ackland  walked  impatiently  to 
the  drawing-room  window,  in  the  hope  that  he  should  dis- 
cover some  promise  of  fine  weather:  in  vain  was  his  eye  cast 
anxiously  from  one  quarter  of  the  heavens  to  another  ;  dense 
clouds  shut  out  every  streak  of  sky-blue,  and  concealed  every 
sun-beam.  The  branches  of  the  leafless  trees  groaned,  and 
poured  sad  wailing  music  through  the  air ; — ever  and  anon 
their  accumulated  burthen  of  snow  would  fall  rushing  to  the 
ground,  not  unfrequently  accompanied  with  the  rent  boughs 
themselves. 

Not  a  living  thing  was  to  be  seen.    The  timid  winter  birds 


HOME. 


113 


were  all  concealed  in  nooks  and  hollow  trees ;  and  domesti- 
cated animals  were  securely  sheltered. 

Henry  gazed  long  upon  the  dreary  scene  without,  now  and 
then-  striving  to  dissipate  mental  restlessness  by  traversing 
the  adjoining  hall,  yet  returning  full  often  with  unabated  so- 
licitude to  his  post  at  the  window. 

It  was  seldom  that  the  cheerful  and  engaging  conversation 
of  his  aunt  failed  to  interest  him,  and  still  less  frequently  was 
he  insensible  to  the  never  spent  gaiety  of  his  cousin  Gertrude. 

But  it  is  time  that  I  should  make  you  acquainted  with 
Henry's  history.  He  had  been  an  orphan  from  early  child- 
hood, but  had  known  few  of  the  ills  which  follow  such  des- 
titution ;  for  his  uncle  Melville  had  adopted  him  into  the  bo- 
som of  his  own  family,  and  he  had  found  in  his  aunt  a 
mother's  tender  love,  united  to  the  unchanging  kindness  of  a 
friend. 

His  cousin  Gertrude  was  to  him  a  sister;  no  little  unkind- 
nesses  were  ever  suffered  to  show  themselves,  or  disturb  that 
delightful  harmony  which  makes  all  who  come  within  the 
sphere  of  its  influences  contented  and  happy. 

Henry  had  one  brother,  some  years  his  senior,  from  whom 
he  had  been  long  separated,  and  it  was  for  his  arrival  he  had 
been  looking  with  earnestness  for  several  days.  The  storm 
before  alluded  to  had,  hour  after  hour,  depressed  hope  and 


114 


HOME. 


destroyed  expectation,  and  Henry  was  suffering  under  the 
disappointment,  as  all  those  do  whose  minds  are  not  equally 
balanced,  and  subjected  to  control. 

"  No, — he  cannot  come  while  this  tempest  rages,"  said  he, 
as  he  again  looked  from  the  window; — "no  traveller  could 
brave  this  weather." 

"  Certainly  we  cannot  expect  the  happiness  of  embracing 
our  dear  Herbert  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Melville,  "but,  my 
Henry,  the  hours  would  pass  less  wearily  if  you  would  be 
persuaded  to  give  yourself  some  occupation.  You  are  really 
now  allowing  your  disappointment  to  affect  you  too  much, 
and  too  unreasonably." 

Henry  felt  the  truth  of  this  remark,  and  just  then  his  eye 
was  attracted  by  the  graceful  form  of  a  mountain  fir,  the  long 
thick  branches  of  which  were  laden  with  snow.  He  caught 
up  Gertrude's  pencil,  and  sketched  the  tree  and  surrounding 
scenery  with  a  rapid  hand,  then  playfully  throwing  it  before 
his  cousin,  he  said,  half  gaily,  half  in  sadness, — "  This  for 
remembrance,  Gertrude." 

The  smile  on  Gertrude's  cheek  vanished  at  these  words, 
and  taking  up  the  picture,  she,  after  showing  it  to  her  mo- 
ther, placed  it  carefully  in  her  port-folio. 

"  Come,  my  children, '  said  Mrs.  Melville,  "This  must  not 
be ;  sad  hearts  and  tearful  eyes  are  known  full  oft  of  need : — 


HOME.  115 

but  now  we  must  not  suffer  clouds  to  gather  round  our  own 
home  circle,  as  they  have  accumulated  in  stormy  strength 
abroad.  Let  us  think  of  the  joys  that  have  been  and  the 
pleasures  that  may  be  ;  not  the  disappointments  that  are,  or 
the  separations  that  will  soon  divide  us." 

Gertrude  and  Henry  acknowledged  the  kindness  of  Mrs. 
Melville's  effort  to  cheer  them  by  a  coresponding  exertion, 
and  the  evening  passed  so  pleasantly  that  they  were  quite  sur- 
prised when  the  faithful  time-keeper  "  doled  its  strokes,  in 
numbers  ten."  They  bade  good  night,  and  parted,  saying 
that  to-morrow  the  sun  must  break  in  upon  them,  and  the 
roads  be  opened  for  travelling. 

The  morrow  did  indeed  prove  a  sunny  one  :  the  heavens 
were  one  wide  expanse  of  pure  blue,  unshaded  by  a  sin- 
gle cloud.  The  temperature  had  become  more  moderate 
during  the  night ; — raiu  had  fallen,  and  congealed  upon  every 
branch  and  sprig, — and  now  all  were  glittering  in  the  sun 
beams,  reflecting  light  and  brightness  like  the  famed  mirrors 
of  Persia, — or  glancing  back  all  the  colours  of  the  rain- 
bow in  a  thousand  varied  tints  presenting  to  the  eye  a  scene 
of  more  glorious  splendour  than  bard  can  paint,  or  tongue, 
except  gifted  with  angelic  powers,  describe. 

The  family  were  early  assembled,  and  enjoying  the  beau- 
ties thus  widely  and  liberally  scattered  round  them,  when 


116 


HOME. 


Mrs.  Melville  remarked  that  to-day  they  might  look  for  Her- 
bert ;  "  and  suppose,"  continued  she,  "  that  we  ride  to  the  Fir- 
forest  hotel,  and  meet  him  there ;  we  shall  have  a  delightful 
day  for  the  excursion,  and  you  will  sooner  enjoy  the  happi- 
ness of  meeting." 

This  plan  was  eagerly  entered  into  by  Gertrude  and  Henry. 
But  first  the  former  hastened  to  the  green-house,  to  see  if  the 
flowers  were  still  blooming  to  welcome  her  cousin,  and  if  the 
beautiful  geraniums  and  roses,  which  she  had  carefully  reared 
for  him,  still  promised  successful  growth.  Henry  arranged 
and  re-arranged  the  books  in  the  room  assigned  his  brother, 
and  read  again  and  again  his  last  letters.  His  uneasiness 
and  impatience  found  relief,  however,  when  the  carriage  was 
announced,  and,  assisting  his  aunt  and  Gertrude,  he  sprang 
in  after  them.  "  The  day  is  so  fine,"  said  he,  "  that  Herbert 
will  ride  early ;  he  must  be  quite  recovered  now,  and  able  to 
bear  the  cold  air  of  our  northern  regions." 

"  We  hope  so,"  replied  Mrs.  Melville,  11  but  we  must  be 
cautious  in  proving  the  strength  of  one  who  has  been  so  long 
an  invalid." 

In  two  hours  the  party  arrived  at  the  pleasant  hotel  in  the 
Fir-forest,  where  they  designed  waiting  the  appearance  of 
their  young  relative. 

Not  far  thence  was  a  small  lake,  which  in  summer  pre- 


HOME. 


117 


sented  a  beautiful  sheet  of  water,  arid  in  winter  afforded 
amusement  and  exercise  to  all  the  lovers  of  skaiting  for  miles 
round.  In  this  amusement  Henry  excelled, —  and  to  relieve 
the  suspense  which  hung  on  his  brother's  arrival,  he  resorted 
with  some  young  persons  to  the  lake.  Their  interest  and 
enjoyment  were  every  moment  increasing,  for  the  ice  af- 
forded no  obstructions,  and  they  glided  rapidly  from  side  to 
side  as  if  borne  by  the  very  winds  over  the  wide  smooth  sur- 
face. 

Presently  a  shriek  of  distress  filled  the  air ;  all  hearts  were 
chilled,  for  one  of  the  party  had  incautiously  approached  an 
opening  in  the  ice,  and  fallen  through.  Henry  Ackland  was 
nearest  the  sufferer,  and  rushed  forward  to  save  him :  the  boy 
grasped  his  hands,  but  in  this  struggle  the  ice  gave  way, 
and  both  sank.  At  this  crisis  some  woodmen,  who  were 
passing  on  the  shore,  hastened  to  their  aid,  and,  after  much 
perilous  exertion,  both  lads  were  taken  insensible  from  the 
water. 

Words  cannot  express  the  distress  of  Mrs.  Melville  and 
Gertrude,  when  Henry  was  borne  into  the  hotel ;  yet  it  was 
expressed  more  on  their  countenances  than  by  their  actions, 
for  both  maintained  so  much  composure  as  to  render  prompt 
and  active  assistance  in  the  measures  taken  for  his  restora- 
tion.   Medical  aid  was  summoned ;  and,  while  every  fear 


118 


HOME. 


was  yet  alive,  Herbert  arrived,  and  was  ushered  into  the 
apartment,  wholly  unprepared  for  the  scene. 

It  was  now  that  every  one  felt,  the  benefit  of  self-command  ; 
for  never  had  the  fortitude  of  the  young  people  encountered 
so  severe  a  trial.  At  length  Henry  opened  his  eyes,  and 
breathed  more  freely,  but  it  was  more  than  half  an  hour  be- 
fore consciousness  was  wholly  restored,  and  he  recognised  his 
dear  brother.  This  interview,  at  all  times  looked  for  as  deeply 
interesting,  under  present  circumstances  proved  almost  too 
much  for  each  party,  and  the  medical  attendants  ordered  them 
to  separate  till  the  invalid  was  in  some  degree  strengthened. 

It  was  not  till  several  days  of  perfect  quiet  that  Henry  was 
sufficiently  recovered  to  converse  with  his  brother,  or  be  re- 
moved to  his  own  home.  But  as  he  regained  his  usual 
health,  every  moment  seemed  winged  with  joy,  and  four 
weeks  of  domestic  happiness  were  quickly  sped. 

The  time  was  now  approaching  when  Herbert  was  ex- 
pected to  resume  his  collegiate  studies,  which,  on  account  of 
ill  health,  had  been  for  some  months  suspended.  Henry,  too, 
was  preparing  to  leave  his  much  loved  relatives,  to  prove  the 
united  pleasures  and  trials  of  a  large  academy.  They  were 
both  to  be  separated  for  some  months  from  their  friends  and 
each  other,  and  we  cannot  but  own  the  truth,  that  much  sad 
feeling  was  called  up  on  the  occasion. 


HOME. 


119 


Herbert  gave  his  favourite  flowers  into  Gertrude's  care, 
with  the  expression  of  a  hope  that  they  might,  by  their  growth 
and  beauty,  repay  her  skilful  cultivation.  As  for  Henry,  his 
final  commissions  were  so  many,  that  I  cannot  enter  into  the 
detail;  but  his  most  careful  petitions  were  made  in  favour 
of  his  ring-doves,  which  had  gained  on  his  affections  in  pro- 
portion as  his  care  and  gentleness  had  made  them  familiar. 

Gertrude,  with  a  smile  brightening  her  countenance,  even 
through  tears,  promised  to  perform  all  that  her  cousins  asked, 
nay,  twice  more  than  they  would  have  urged;  but  then,  in 
return,  she  made  them  engage  to  collect  for  her  any  valuable 
minerals,  or  rare  plants,  which  they  might  find;  but  above 
all,  to  write  often.  "  Oh,"  said  she,  "Lif  your  doves,  Henry, 
were  but  carriers,  how  often  might  we  hear  from  you ;  and 
they  too  might  enliven  your  dull  hours  " 

"Stop,  my  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Melville,  cheerfully,  "no 
sad  anticipations  :  Henry  must  not  look  for  dull  hours, — and 
I  charge  you,"  said  she,  addressing  her  nephews  together, 
"that  you  think  of  us  with  bright  feelings,  and  in  the  ani- 
mating thought  that  we  shall  be  re-united  in  the  summer  va- 
cations. 

"  We  shall  often  talk  of  you,  and  you  will  speak  to  your 
friends  of  us.  Gertrude  will  send  you  all  the  news  from 
hence,  and  will,  I  doubt  not,  prove  the  more  active  correspond- 


120 


HOME, 


ent  of  the  three,  for  you  young  gentlemen  are  not  given  over 
much  to  letter  writing." 

"But,  dear  aunt,  we  like  it,"  replied  Herbert,  "when  we 
have  a  sufficient  motive,  and  that,  when  from  home,  we  never 
lack." 

Soon  after  the  above  conversation  Mrs.  Melville  announced 
to  the  young  people  that  all  things  must  be  in  readiness  by 
the  morrow. 

I  will  not  dwell  on  the  leave-taking,  nor  the  £rst  hours  of 
arrival  at  the  schools.  After  a  few  days  all  parties  were 
busily  engaged  in  the  pleasant  work  of  improvement,  whe- 
ther there  or  at  home,  and  often,  after  the  closing  lessons  of 
the  day,  would  talk  of  the  hoped-for  meeting  in  June. 

Notwithstanding  that  Gertrude  had  thought  six  months  a 
period  which  would  be  long,  almost  unbearably  long  in  pass- 
ing, June,  with  its  stores  of  buds  and  bloom,  did  come;  and 
a  day  was  fixed  for  the  return  of  the  young  students.  Ger- 
trude loved  home  so  much  herself,  that  she  could  hardly 
imagine  it  possible  to  be  contented  elsewhere.  She  possessed 
a  lovely  mind,  and  affections  that  sprung  from  a  heart  over- 
flowing with  mnocence  and  goodness. 

Her  hours  we;e  given  alternately  to  study  and  recreation, 
and  her  lively  spirit  was  ever  active  in  promoting  the  enjoy- 
ment of  all  with  whom  she  associated. 


HO  M  R. 


HOME. 


121 


She  had  culled  fruit  from  her  own  garden  for  her  cousins, 
and  ornamented  their  apartments  with  her  choicest  flowers. 

Henry  arrived  first,  and  the  pleasures  of  meeting  proved 
quite  as  delightful  in  reality  as  they  had  done  in  anticipation. 
But  those  who  have  a  home,  and  a  happy  home,  and  have 
left  it  for  months,  can  tell  with  what  emotions  we  salute,  on 
our  return,  the  friends  from  whom  we  have  been  separated. 

"  Home  never  looked  half  so  beautiful  before,"  said  Hem  y, 
kissing  his  aunt  again  and  again,  after  having  for  the  twen- 
tieth time  expressed  his  joy  in  as  many  different  ways. 

u  Come,  come,"  said  Gertrude,  after  their  salutations  had 
been  many  times  renewed,  "you  have  not  seen  your  ring- 
doves :  they  are  alive,  and  quite  tame," — and  away  the  cou- 
sins sped  to  the  pretty  enclosure  where  they  were  kept,  in 
the  free,  open  air.  The  birds,  unused  now  to  any  one  save 
Gertrude,  flew  timidly  into  the  low  branches  of  the  trees  as 
Henry  came  suddenly  upon  them.  "  Ah,  ungrateful,  you 
have  forgotten  me,"  said  he,  and  threw  himself  on  a  moss- 
grown  rock,  while  his  cousin  conciliated  their  confidence  by 
offering  them  food,  and  they  soon  gathered  round  reassured. 

"  Now,  Henry,"  said  the  happy  girl,  see  them,  see  them 
now\  I  have  cherished  them  for  your  sake  ;  not  one  is  lost, 
and  they  will  soon  come  fearlessly  to  feed  from  your  hand." 
"1  cannot  take  them  dear  coz  ;  they  must  still  be  j  oin's," 

li 


122 


HOME. 


said  Henry,  crowning  her  with  a  wreath  of  early  Climatis ; 
"  come  let  us  away — Herbert  is  coming ;  I  hear  the  carriage.'* 

It  was  really  Herbert,  who,  as  full  of  joy  at  returning  as 
Henry,  now  in  his  turn  quite  overpowered  his  aunt  and  cou- 
sin with  questions,  which  followed  in  such  rapid  succession, 
that  it  was  vain  to  attempt  reply.  £,'Here,  Gertrude,"  said 
he,  "  here  are  some  choice  minerals  for  you ;  and,  aunt,  I 
have  found  out  the  very  best  method  of  rearing  our  beautiful 
mountain  Azaleas ;  I  have  some  very  vigorous  plants,  too, 
which  I  have  procured  this  season,  and  think  that  you  will 
no  longer  want  success  in  their  culture." 

Just  then  their  uncle  entered,  and  the  boys  had  so  much 
for  his  ear,  that  I  retired  from  the  party,  persuaded  that  the 
heartfelt  happiness  I  had  witnessed  would  be  still  prolonged, 
and  that  a  hapvy  home  is  the  happiest  of  all  earthly  places. 

"  Oh,  they  wander  wide  who  roam 
For  the  joys  of  life  from  Home." 


123 


STANZAS. 

I  never  cast  a  flower  away, 

The  gift  of  one  who  cared  for  me, 
,  A  little  flower — a  faded  flower, 
But  it  was  done  reluctantly. 

I  never  looked  a  last  adieu 

To  things  familiar,  but  my  heart 

Shrank  with  a  feeling  almost  pain, 
E'en  from  their  lifelessness  to  part. 

I  never  spoke  the  word,  farewell ! 

But  with  an  utterance  faint  and  broken, 
A  heart-sick  yearning  for  the  time 

When  it  should  never  more  be  spoken ! 

M.  J.  J. 


124 


THE  NUTTING  PARTY. 


By  Mrs.  Hofland. 


"  Do  look,  uncle,  what  nice  bags  Maria  and  little  Annie 
have  made  us  for  our  nutting  expedition,  to-morrow  !  We 
shall  be  off  at  five  in  the  morning,  and  we  shall  bring  home 
such  a  load  of  nuts,  you  cant  think  !  I  wonder  who  will  bring 
the  most?  I  should  like  very  much  to  know  who  will — I 
mean  who  you  think  will  bring  the  most." 

I  can't  form  any  judgment  on  so  important  a  topic,"  said 
Mr.  Rothwell,  smiling. 

"  Now  don't  say  so,  uncle;  I  am  quite  sure  you  have  a 
good  judgment  about  every  thing." 

This  was  said  in  such  a  coaxing  tone  of  good-humoured 
patronage,  from  a  really  good-humoured  boy,  that  his  uncle 
could  not  forbear  to  take  up  the  subject  with  the  interest  it 
held  in  George's  eye,  and  he  replied  with  all  becoming  gravity. 

11 I  think  Richard  will  probably  succeed  the  best  in  filling 
his  bag." 


THE  NUTTING  PARTY. 


125 


"Richard  ! — how  can  you  think  so?  He  is  grave,  and 
learned,  and  all  that ;  as  good  a  fellow  as  ever  was  born,  bat 
by  no  means  fit  for  a  lark  of  this  kind.  Tom  is  more  likely, 
or  Frederick,  or — or — " 

"  Or  yourself,  you  would  say,  to  whom  the  sins  of  being 
grave  or  learned  do  not  apply.  Be  that  as  it  may,  1  think, 
my  dear  boy,  neither  you  nor  William  have  an  equal  chance 
with  our  boys  ;  for  though  you  are  very  active  and  agile,  yet 
you  cannot  have  been  equally  habituated  to  country  occu- 
pations. A  ride  to  Richmond,  or  a  walk  to  Hampstead,  by 
no  means  imply  a  power  to  pierce  thickets,  break  down 
branches,  climb  neighbouring  trees,  or  burst  through  imped- 
ing hedges." 

George  paused,  while  William,  his  younger  brother,  said 
despondingly,  "  I  don't  think  I  shall  get  any  nuts,  for  I  am 
sure  I  can  do  none  of  these  things ;  besides,  I  am  a  kind  of 
heavy  boy  as  well  as  a  little  one,  so  that  I  don't  suppose  I 
shall  get  any,  for  I  am  sure  town  boys  are  not  the  same  as 
country  boys  in  some  things." 

George,  who  had  been  charmed  with  his  visit  to  his  uncle's 
in  Derbyshire,  and  was  fully  persuaded  of  his  own  prowess, 
was  stimulated  by  his  brother's  language  rather  than  de- 
pressed ;  and  he  eagerly  interrupted  him,  to  exclaim,  "  it  may 
be  so  with  you,  Bill,  who  can  scarcely  be  called  a  match 


THE  NUTTING  PARTY. 


with  either  of  the  cousins  near  your  own  age ;  but  in  regard 
to  myself,  who  am  taller  than  Richard,  and  just  as  old,  the 
case  is  quite  different.  Now,  uncle,  what  will  you  bet  that 
I  don't  bring  home  the  better  filled  bag  to-morrow  evening  % 1 

"  I  am  by  no  means  fond  of  wagers,  George,  but  to  oblige 
you  I  will  place  the  matter  on  this  footing.  If  you  bring 
the  best  laden  bag  I  will  forfeit  the  large  bowl  of  syllabub, 
and  you  shall  be  master  of  the  feast ;  if — " 

"  Hurrah  ! — dear  uncle,  you  are  very  kind  ;  it  will  be  the 
most  refreshing  thing  in  the  world  after  our  day's  fatigue ; 
but  don't  say  a  word  to  Richard,  or  I  shan't  consider  it  a  fair 
wager." 

"  You  have  not  yet  heard  my  proposal :  it  is,  that  if  Ri- 
chard brings  home  the  most  nuts,  you  shall  write  twenty 
lines  of  Latin  verse  the  day  after." 

u  Latin  verses  in  holiday  time  ! — that  appears  to  me  quite 
unnatural,  uncle." 

"  Every  one  to  his  taste.  I  have  as  great  a  fancy  for 
your  verses  as  you  can  have  to  my  syllabub ;  so  the  bargain 
is  a  fair  one." 

"  Oh  !  I  am  quite  willing — I  know  I  shall  win." 

The  rest  of  the  party  entering,  a  significant  look  from  each 
person  to  the  other  concluded  the  agreement,  and  various 
voices  were  heard  arranging  their  plans,  and  disposing,  by 


THE  NUTTING  PARTY. 


127 


anticipation,  of  their  expected  gains.  George  professed  an 
intention  of  sending  his  bag  to  Russel  Square,  by  the  wagon, 
"just  to  astonish  the  natives."  Tom  intended  to  make 
strings  of  hob,  dob,  does,  such  as  had  never  been  made  before. 
Frederick  hoped  to  bring  home  a  few  for  his  sisters  at  all 
events,  though  he  confessed  he  should  crack  a  great  many  ; 
and  Richard  professed  an  intention  of  bottling  a  few,  and 
burying  them  in  the  garden,  for  his  mamma  to  eat  at  Christ- 
mas. All  were  full  of  plans,  and  in  their  various  schemes 
and  wishes  developed  their  dispositions,  and  enabled  their 
affectionate  relatives  to  see  how  they  could  best  render  their 
amusements  not  only  pleasurable,  but  beneficial  to  them. 

The  morning  was  as  fine  as  young  hearts  could  desire. 
A  hearty  though  hasty  breakfast  was  swallowed  by  the  boys, 
during  which  the  kind  sisters  made  their  appearance ;  and 
the  eldest  examined  their  baskets  of  provision,  cautioned 
Tom  against  running  into  danger,  and  recommended  Fre- 
derick and  his  cousin  William  to  observe  all  that  Johnson 
said  to  them.  This  done,  their  guide  appeared,  a  shout  of 
exultation  proclaimed  their  readinsss  "  to  be  off ;"  and  away 
they  all  bounded,  each  armed  with  a  bag  and  a  hooked  stick, 
all  boasting  or  believing  that  they  should  do  great  things, 
and  George's  voice  soaring  above  the  rest,  as  he  sang, 

"  Five  blither  lads  ye  wad  nae  see.1' 


128 


THE  NUTTING  PARTY. 


On  they  went,  neither  turning  to  right  nor  left,  though 
many  a  temptation  was  in  their  way  as  they  passed  the  hedge- 
rows in  Mr.  Roth  well's  fields,  and  others  in  their  vicinity, 
where  hung  many  a  rich  cluster  of  the  fruit  they  sought. 
This  forbearance  might  be  attributed  to  Johnson's  observa- 
tion, that  "  gathering  them  there  nuts  was  work  for  women ;" 
and  who  ever  knew  a  boy  that  would  submit  to  do  "  women's 
work?" — these  were  left  for  their  sisters  to  gather. 

Even  afterwards,  when  a  coppice  was  entered  where  many 
hazel  trees  grew,  they  still  trudged  patiently  after  their  guide, 
though,  he  allowed,  the  young  trees  11  grew  handy  for  the 
little  ones  to  gather;"  there  were  no  "little  ones"  (at  such  an 
early  hour)  who  would  plead  guilty  to  any  unmanly  cha- 
racteristic. All  and  each  were  ambitious  of  reaching  "  high- 
bank  wood,"  where,  all  the  world  knew,  the  "  best  brown 
shellers"  alone  could  be  found — where  there  were  rocks  to 
climb,  brushwood  to  impede  you,  springs  to  intercept  you, 
delightful  difficulties  to  overcome,  and  rich  rewards  to  recom- 
pense exertion." 

At  length  the  brow  of  the  wooded  hill  was  gained  ;  the 
thick  clusters  weighed  down  the  drooping  stems,  as  if  invit- 
ing the  hand  to  gather  them,  and,  in  some  places  the  lipe 
brown  fruit  had  dropt  on  the  grass  below.  Richard,  an  old 
nutter,  cast  his  eye  around,  and  seeing  where  best  he  couid 


THE  NUTTING  PARTY, 


129 


obtain  such  a  standing  as  would  enable  him  to  bring  down 
the  nuts,  began  his  operations  with  the  caution  of  an  adept.- 
George,  shouting  for  joy,  and  from  the  sense  of  conscious 
triumph,  felt  as  if  he  could  instantly  sweep  all  he  beheld  into 
his  bag ;  whilst  Tom,  with  great  alertness,  began  swarming 
up  a  high  tree,  and  having  seated  himself  across  one  of  the 
branches,  drew  up  the  ends  of  the  nut-tree  sprigs  with  great 
facility,  and  soon  conveyed  the  fruit  into  the  bag  which  hung 
round  his  neck.  He  had  not,  however,  pursued  this  method 
of  realizing  long,  when  venturing  too  near  the  end  of  the 
branch,  it  broke  under  him,  and  he  fell  into  the  thicket  be- 
low, his  open  bag  disgorging  its  contents — his  hooked  stick 
left  sticking  in  the  tree — his  hat  lodged  out  of  all  reach,  and 
his  trowsers  miserably  torn  in  the  descent. 

But  Tom's  troubles  were  of  short  duration.  He  was  not  a 
boy  to  mind  a  bump  or  a  scratch,  and  he  had  seen  from  his 
elevation  so  much  of  the  riches  of  the  land,  as  would  ena- 
ble him,  by  perseverance,  soon  to  recover  his  loss,  a  loss 
which  the  little  active  Frederick  turned  to  good  account,  as, 
creeping  through  the  more  pervious  parts  of  the  underwood, 
he  regained  many  a  rich  bunch  lost  from  Tom's  bag,  besides 
using  his  position  to  look  up  through  the  branches,  and  knock 
down  those  ripe  nuts  he  had  not  height  nor  strength  to  reach  ; 
and  this  art  he  communicated  to  his  cousin  W  illiam,  who 


130 


THE  NUTTING  PARTY. 


crept  fearfully  after  him,  and  thought  a  single  nut,  so  ob- 
tained, an  achievement. 

Far  different  was  the  fate  of  poor  George ;  every  twig  he 
seized  appeared  to  him  animated  with  a  power  of  repelling 
his  attacks ;  they  eluded  his  strongest  grasp,  bounced  against 
his  face,  slipped  from  his  hook,  tore  his  hands  and  his  clothes °r 
and  even  when  at  length  he  despondingly  submitted  to  beg 
instruction  from  Johnson,  he  succeeded  little  better.  Despite 
of  the  excitement  of  the  scene,  and  the  general  buoyancy  of 
his  happy  spirits,  poor  George  felt  and  owned  that  he  was 
discomfited  completely. 

Courage  1"  cried  Richard,  as  with  a  heavy  bag  he  joined 
George — "  remember  what  Miss  Edgeworth  says  of  the  dif- 
ference between  1  heroes  full,  and  heroes  fasting' — let  us  sit' 
down  in  this  pleasant  glade  and  dine ;  you  see  Johnson  is 
spreading  our  cloth  below  the  shadow  of  that  noble  oak." 

Down  they  sate,  and  thankfully  did  they  eat,  and  merrilj 
did  they  descant  on  their  adventures  and  their  troubles,  until 
George's  spirits  again  were  roused  to  exertion,  and  his  past 
failures  became  beacons  which  he  considered  likely  to  en- 
sure future  success.  Nor  was  he  wholly  wrong  ;  for  his  re- 
newed strength  and  his  acquired  experience  So  far  assisted', 
his  future  endeavours  that  he  really  did  attain  the  power  of* 
securing  a  decent  portion  of  nuts — quite  as  majay  as  any  in- 


THE  NUTTING  PARTY, 


131 


habitant  of  Russel  Square  could  expect,  on  the  day  of  their 
installation  into  the  profession  of  a  nut-gatherer. 

At  length  the  sun  gave  symptoms  of  decline,  and  the 
strength  and  spirits  of  the  younger  portion  of  our  party  re- 
sembled him ;  but  a  glass  of  spruce  beer  so  far  revived  them 
that  all  set  out  for  home  with  renewed  spirits ;  and  under 
the  care  of  Johnson  their  strength  was  so  well  husbanded, 
that  they  hailed  the  rising  chimnies  of  sweet,  sweet  home/* 
with  acclamations  of  delight. 

George  alone  was  silent,  not  from  envy  of  the  heavy  bag 
which  he  had  several  times  most  kindly  assisted  his  cousin 
Richard  to  carry,  but  from  a  sense  of  his  own  folly  in  sup- 
posing that  he  could  outshine  that  cousin;  aud  he  felt  most 
anxious  to  make  the  amende  honourable  by  confessing  his 
error,  yet  had  also  to  struggle  with  his  own  pride  and  mor- 
tification on  the  occasion.  As  every  one  was  completely 
tired,  it  was  no  wonder  they  entered  the  lawn,  wThich  led  to 
the  house,  in  an  irregular  manner;  and  when  they  sur- 
rounded Mr.  Rothwell,  who  was  waiting  at  a  certain  white 
gate  to  receive  them,  it  was  no  wonder  that  he  did  not,  in 
the  first  instance,  perceive  who  was  the  most  loaded  with 
the  produce  of  the  woods. 

"  William,  my  little  man,  how  are  you?  I  fear  this  day's 
fatigue  has  been  too  much  for  a  little  London  boy." 


132 


THE  NUTTING  PARTY. 


"  Oh,  no,  "uncle,  I  am  not  tired  a  bit,  I  assure  you ;  and 
look  at  my  bag,  it  is  a  quarter  full  at  least;  not  that  I  got 
the  nuts  myself,  I  own,  but  every  body  was  good  to  me.  I 
got  lots  that  fell  out  of  poor  Tom's  bag  ;  and  Richard  threw 
me  many  a  fine  bunch,  when  he  was  gathering  his  own 
great  heap  ;  and  Frederick — poor  little  fellow  ! — showed  me 
the  way  of  it ;  so  you  see,  altogether,  I  have  got  quite  a  de- 
cent show  for  a  cockney." 

"  That  is  more  than  I  can  say,"  observed  George,  "  though 
I  don't  plead  guilty  to  being  a  cockney." 

"  Mr.  Rothwell  was  just  about  to  reply  to  this  confession, 
when  Mrs.  Rothwell  and  her  daughter  joined  him  on  the  lawn? 
being  anxious  to  see  the  younger  branches.  As  each  came 
in  with  the  air  of  one  wearied,  though  all  were  in  spirits,  it 
was  not  immediately  remarked  that  Richard  had  not  arrived. 

On  entering  the  usual  sitting  room,  each  boy  deposited  his 
bag  on  the  table,  and  with  it  his  own  account  of  his  difficul- 
ties, perils,  and  comparative  success.  In  the  midst  of  this 
confusion  and  exultation,  Richard  entererl,  and  quietly  seated 
himself  at  a  little  distance  from  the  busy  group. 

"  You  are  sadly  tired,  I  fear,  Richard  ?"  said  his  mamma. 

"  I  am  tired,  but  not  overdone,  I  assure  you,  my  dear  mo- 
ther. I  only  lagged  behind  to  call  at  Betty  Holmes's  to 
measure  my  nuts," 


THE  NUTTING  PARTY. 


133 


"  And  how  many  had  you  got?"  said  Maria. 
"  There  was  a  bushel  and  several  quarts,  I  forget  how 
many." 

"  Produce  them,  my  boy,  I  am  interested  in  your  bag,"  said 
his  papa. 

Richard  instantly  rose,  and  approaching  his  father,  said 
with  some  confusion,  "  I  am  very  sorry,  Sir — I  had  no  idea 
you  wanted  the  nuts,  and — and  I  gave  them  to  Betty." 

"  How  happened  that,  Richard  ?  I  wish  you  had  not  done 
so,  I  confess." 

"  Why,  Sir,  all  the  time  the  poor  old  woman  was  measuring 
them,  she  kept  praising  them,  and  said  once  or  twice  to 
herself,  as  it  were,  'lauk-a-me! — what  fine  ones  they  be! 
Now  at  Bakewell  fair  these  nuts  would  fetch  a  surprising 
deal.'  " 

"  And  so  you  gave  them  the  poor  creature  for  purposes  of 
merchandize.  Well,  well,  I  cannot  blame  you,  though  I  lose 
a  syllabub  by  you,  nor  am  I  very  sorry  to  find  you  so  truly 
generous  as  to  be  able  to  give  a  boon  so  hardly  earned. 
George,  I  must  pay  my  wager,  for  it  is  evident  that  your  bag 
is  far  better  filled  than  Richard's." 

"  No,  dear  uncle,  I  have  no  claim.  I  resign  all  right  to 
the  syllabub." 

"  Nor  have  I  any  claim  to  the  praise  of  being  generous," 


134 


THE  NUTTING  PARTY. 


said  Richard  evidently  labouring  under  some  particular 
anxiety. 

"Not  generous  to  giveaway  all  your  nuts  !"  said  Maria, 
"How  you  talk!  Besides,  you  have  given  Betty  Holmes 
many  a  thing  to  my  knowledge  " 

"  Not  because  I  was  generous,  Maria,  for  I  owed  her  more 
than  I  could  ever  pay  her,  I  am  certain." 

"  Owed  her!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Rothweli,  "what  can  you 
mean?  How  could  you  dare  to  contract  obligation  to  a  poor 
woman  like  that,  unknown  to  me  ?" 

"  Dear  father,  I  will  tell  you  how  it  was,  since  my  mother 
is  absent.  I  used  to  be  very  fond  of  climbing  trees,  and  once, 
when  I  was  about  Frederick's  age,  I  got  up  to  the  very  top 
of  the  larch  in  the  Lea  lane,  when  all  at  once  the  topmost 
bough  gave  way  (in  the  same  manner  a  lower  one  did  to-day 
with  Tom)  and  I  fell,  but  not  to  the  ground.  Most  happily, 
Betty  .was  passing  under  at  the  moment ;  she  caught  me  in  her 
arms  and  we  rolled  down  together,  she  being  a  good  deal  the 
worse  hurt  of  the  two.  When  I  came  to  myself,  she  took  me 
to  her  cottage,  rubbed  my  bruises  with  vinegar,  made  me  lie 
down  an  hour,  and  did  all  she  could  to  soothe  and  restore  me, 
only  insisting  '-that  I  would  neither  do  such  a  naughty  trick 
again,'  nor  on  any  account  c  tell  Madam  the  danger  I  had 
experienced,  lest  she  should  be  always  in  fear  for  me.'  For 


THE  NUTTING  PARTY. 


135 


this  reason  I  have  hitherto  been  silent  as  to  my  error,  but  cer- 
tainly not  unmindful  of  my  obligation.  Since  I  am  now  of 
an  age  to  be  trusted,  I  hope  I  am  right  in  explaining  my  situ- 
ation as  to  poor  Betty.5' 

"  You  art  right,  Richard  ;  the  duties  we  owe  the  poor  wo- 
man now  devolve  on  me — but  here  comes  our  good  mamma, 
followed  by  supper  and  syllabub." 

All  troubles  were  speedily  forgotten  by  our  nutting  friends, 
who  "  fought  all  their  battles  o'er  again"  with  much  glee,  till, 
overpowered  by  fatigue,  the  three  youngest  withdrew,  already 
half  asleep.  Richard  was  cheerful,  though  he  did  not  say 
much ;  but  George  for  the  first  time  was  silent  and  thought- 
ful, yet  evidently  in  good  will  with  all  around  him. 

The  following  morning,  as  Mr.  Rothwell  was  returning  from 
Betty  Holmes's  cottage,  where  he  had  "  made  the  widow's 
heart  sing  for  joy,"  and  received  himself  the  purest  pleasure  in 
hearing  the  praises  of  his  son  Richard,  who  wras  the  old  woman's 
especial  darling,  he  met  his  nephew  George,  who,  approach- 
ing him  with  an  air  of  assumed  gravity,  though  with  a  buoyant 
step,  placed  in  his  hand  a  neatly  written  copy  of  Latin  verses. 

u  What  may  this  be,  George?" 

"  My  payment  of  the  wager,  uncle,  which  undoubtedly 
was  due  in  honour.  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  found  very  faulty, 
but  indeed  I  have  done  my  best." 


136 


THE  NUTTING  PARTY. 


"  I  will  examine  it  in  the  library,  and  depend  upon  it,  even 
if  I  find  many  errors,  I  shall  yet  duly  estimate  the  good  feel- 
ing which  dictated  your  conduct  in  writing  it.  After  a  day 
of  such  exertion  and  excitement  as  yesterday,  it  required  no 
little  resolution  to  sit  down  steadily  to  work,  in  a  boy  of  your 
age  and — " 

"  And  habits,  you  were  going  to  say,  uncle.  Ah  !  I  know  . 
I  have  been  very  idle,  but  I  have  begun  to  feel — I  mean,  to 
think — how  happy  it  would  make  my  father  to  see  me  as 
steady  and  good  as  Richard  (who  is  a  famous  fellow  at  play 
too,)  so  I  intend  to  try  what  1  can  do.  But  do  tell  me,  dear 
uncle,  if  it  is  likely  1  should  ever  overtake  him  as  to  being 
clever  and  good  T1 

11  Unquestionably !  At  your  time  of  life,  and  with  your  na- 
tural abilities,  diligence  will  conquer  every  difficulty,  and  af- 
fection sweeten  every  toil." 

"  Then  I  will  begin  from  this  very  day.  I  will  try  to  get 
as  good  a  name  in  the  school  as  I  have  in  the  play- ground  ; 
and  who  knows,  uncle — who  knows  but  I  may  live  to  be  a 
Lord  Chancellor?" 

"  Who  indeed,  George?"  Nevertheless,  though  I  approve 
of  this  rapid  change  in  the  object  of  your  anibhion,  from  a 
bag  of  nuts  to  a  woolsack,  L  would  yet  remind  you  that  good 
resolutions,  and  good  conduct  also,  may  arise  from  blending 


THE  NUTTING  PARTY. 


137 


a  little  humility  and  diffidence  of  your  own  powers,  with  a 
steady  determination  to  exert  those  powers," 

"  Yes,  yes,  uncle;  I  see  all  that,"  said  George,  as  a  quick 
blush  rose  over  his  honest  countenance ;  "  I  hope  I  shall  ne- 
ver forget  the  lesson  I  learnt  from  my  own  mortification  yes- 
terday. "  No,  as  long  as  1  live  I  will  remember  my  dear 
consin's  kindness,  my  own  folly,  and  every  thing  connected 
with  our  1  Nutting  Party.'  " 


15 


138 


THE  RECALL. 


By  Mrs.  Hemans. 


O'er  the  far  blue  mountains, 

O'er  the  white  sea-foam, 
Come  thou  long  parted  one ! 

Back  to  thy  home. 
When  the  bright  fire  shineth, 

Sad  looks  thy  place ; 
While  the  true  heart  pineth, 

Missing  thy  face. 
O'er  the  far  blue  mountains, 

O'er  the  white  sea-foam, 
Come,  thou  long  parted  one ! 

Back  to  thy  home. 

Music  is  sorrowful 
Since  thou  wert  gone  ; 

Sisters  are  mourning  thee — 
Come  to  thine  own  ! 


LINES  IN  A  FRIEND'S  ALBUM. 

Hark  !  the  home-voices  call, 

Back  to  thy  rest ! 
Come  to  thy  father's  hall, 

Thy  mother's  breast! 
O'er  the  far  blue  mountains, 

O'er  the  white  sea-foam, 
Come,  thou  long  parted  one ! 

Back  to  thy  home! 


LINES 


WRITTEN  ON  THE  LAST  LEAF  OF  A  FRIEND  S  ALBUM. 


By  Miss  Mitford. 


The  book  is  filled,  thy  comrade  long, 
The  pretty  book  of  sketch  and  song ; 
Of  words  with  gentle  kindness  fraught, 
Of  wisdom,  peace,  and  lofty  thought : 
Book  of  sweet  sadness  !   Book  that  told 
Of  friends  beloved  beneath  the  mould, 
And  waken'd  oft  the  tender  sigh 
For  vacant  homes,  and  years  gone  by. 


140 


LINES  IN  A  FRIEND'S  ALBUM. 


Yet  sighs  that  breathe  o'er  well-spent  hours, 

Are  sweet  as  western  winds  on  flowers  ; 

Yet  tears,  o'er  virtuous  memories  shed, 

Embalm  and  sanctify  the  dead. 

And,  oh !  may  many  a  brightening  ray 

Illume  and  gild  thine  onward  day ! 

And  many  a  friend  (for  few  can  claim, 

More  proud  to  share,  that  honour' d  name) 

Combine  thy  future  life  to  bless 

With  peace,  and  love,  and  happiness ! 

For  thee  may  every  good  conspire, 

That  verse  can  ask,  or  heart  desire ! 

And  the  full  Album's  latest  line 

Call  blessings  down  on  thee  and  thine ! 


141 


THE  TWO  SOLILOQUIES; 

OR, 

THE  IDLE  BOY,  AND  THE  IDLE  BOY  BECOME  A  MAN. 


By  Miss  Jewsbury. 


O  dear  me !  what  a  terrible  trouble  it  is  to  learn  lessons 
and  go  to  school !  Here  I  have  one,  two — no,  not  two,  bat 
a  whole  column  and  a  half  of  words  with  meaning's,  to  get 
by  heart:  I  wish  words  had  no  meanings.  Well,  I  suppose 
I  must  begin  to  learn  them : — p-r-i-s  pris,  o-n  on,  prison, 
"a  place  where  people  are  confined."  Why  couldn't  they 
say  school  at  once? — that's  a  prison,  I  am  sure.  Well,  what 
comes  next?  P-u-n  pun,  i-s-h  ish,  punish ;  I  know  the  mean- 
ing of  that  word  without  the  book,  every  body  in  our  house 
is  so  fond  of  using  it.  "Master  Charles,"  says  old  cross 
nurse,  "  if  you  will  rampage  out  your  clothes  in  this  manner, 
I  shall  ask  your  papa  to  punish  you."  "  Master  Charles," 
cries  Betty  housemaid,  "you  deserve  punishing,  that  you 
do,  scrasing  my  chairs,  and  writing  on  my  tables  so." — Now 


142 


THE  TWO  SOLILOQUIES. 


they  are  not  your  chairs  and  tables  Mrs.  Betty,  they  are 
papa's.    O  this  nasty  ugly  lesson,  I  never  shall  get  it ! 
P-l-e-a-s  pleas,  u-r-e  ure,  pleasure,  "  gratification  of  mind." 
Nay,  but  I  am  sure  pleasure  means  eating  penny  tarts,  and  play- 
ing at  watchmen  and  thieves  with  all  our  scholars.    I  dare 
say,  if  Fred  Jones  had  heard  me,  he'd  say  pleasure  meant 
having  a  new  book.    Read,  read,  read, — I  hate  reading : 
when  I'm  a  man,  I'll  never  open  a  book,  and  I'll  never  send 
my  children  to  school,  and  I'll  have  a  black  horse — no,  it 
shall  be  a  grey  one  with  a  long  tail,  and  I'll  ride  up  and 
down  street  all  day  long.    O,  how  I  wish  I  were  a  man  now  ! 
#*#### 
Yes,  I  am  a  man  ;  and  wo  is  me  for  having  been  such  a 
little  fool  when  I  was  a  boy !   I  hated  my  book,  and  took 
more  pains  to  forget  my  lessons  than  ever  I  did  to  learn  them. 
What  a  dunce  I  was  even  over  my  spelling !  always  at  the 
bottom  of  my  class,  and  my  book  thumbed  and  dog's-eared, 
and  cried  over — the  very  emblem  of  duncishness.    "  Do, 
Charles,  learn  your  lessons,"  said  my  father,  or  "  you'll  be 
fit  for  nothing  when  a  man."    "  Do,  dear  Charles,  give 
your  mind  to  your  books,  or  I  shall  be  ashamed  of  own- 
ing you  for  my  boy,"  said  my  poor  mother  ;  but  no,  I  must 
give  my  mind  to  whipping  tops,  and  eating  cakes ;  and  a 
fine  scholar  they  made  me  !  Now,  there  was  Fred  Jones;  he 


THE  TWO  SOLILOQUIES. 


143 


liked  play  well  enough,  but  he  liked  reading  better ;  and  he 
learnt  more  out  of  school  hours  than  ever  I  did  in  them.  Fred 
Jones  is  now  like  myself,  a  man,  but  a  very  different  kind  of 
man  :  he  has  made  friends  among  the  wise,  the  honourable, 
and  the  learned.  I  cannot  be  admitted  to  their  acquaint- 
ance! He  can  interest  a  whole  company  with  useful  inform- 
ation :  I  am  obliged  either  to  be  silent,  or  talk  about  the  wea- 
ther and  my  neighbours.  I  can  make  out  a  bill  of  parcels, 
but  I  blunder  over  a  letter  to  a  friend.  I  see  my  error  now, 
but  now  it  is  too  late :  I  have  no  time  to  read,  for  I  must 
work  for  my  daily  bread  ;  and  if  I  had  time,  I  could  not  now 
turn  my  reading  to  profit ! 

Behold  the  bitter  fruits  of  idleness  in  childhood  ! 


144 


THE  QUARRIES  UNDER  PARIS, 

Chaos  of  ruins  !  who  shall  trace  the  void 
O'ei  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 

And  say,  "  Here  was,  or  i*,"  where  all  is  doubly  night  ?  —Byron. 

The  beautiful  city  of  Paris  contains  many  objects  worthy 
of  the  attention  of  the  traveller ;  but  the  immense  subterra- 
nean cavern  over  which  it  is  built,  must  always  excite  the 
deepest  interest  in  the  breast  of  the  curious  observer.  The 
important  fact,  that  this  fine  city  actually  stands  on  the  brink 
of  a  frightful  abyss,  remained  a  state  secret  till  the  middle  of 
the  last  century  :  even  the  existence  of  the  caverns  now 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Quarries  was  treated  as  a  fable 
by  foreigners,  and  doubted  by  the  greater  part  of  the  Pari- 
sians themselves,  till  Mr.  Thomas  White  member  of  the  Royal 
Medical  Society  of  Edinburgh,  obtained  leave  from  the 
French  Government  to  visit  them  and  published  the  following 
amusing  account  of  his  subterranean  travels  in  the  second 
volume  of  the  Manchester  Transactions : 

11  At  the  entrance  by  the  Obsei vatoire  Royal  the  path  is 
narrow  for  a  considerable  way ;  but  soon  we  entered  large  and 
spacious  streets,  all  markedjwith  names,  the  same  as  in  the 


THE  QUARRIES  UNDER  PARIS.  145 

city.  Different  advertisements  and  bills  were  found  as  we 
proceeded,  pasted  on  the  walls,  so  that  it  had  every  appear 
ance  of  a  large  town,  swallowed  up  in  the  earth.  The  gene- 
ral height  of  the  roof  is  about  nine  or  ten  feet ;  but,  in  some 
parts  not  less  than  thirty  or  forty*  In  many  places  there  is 
a  liquor  continually  dropping  from  it  which  congeals  iuime- 
diate'y,  and  forms  a  species  of  transj  arent  s  one,  but  not  so 
fine  and  clear  as  rock  crystal.  As  we  continued  our  j  eiegii- 
nation,  we  thought  ourselves  in  no  small  danger  from  the 
roof,  which  we  found  but  in  iflerently  propped  up,  m  some 
places,  with  wood  much  decayed.  Under  the  homes,  and 
many  of  the  streets,  however,  it  seemed  to  be  tolrniWy  se- 
emed, by  immense  stones  ^et  in  mortar :  in  oiher  parts,  w  here 
there  are  only  fields  and  gardens,  it  was  totally  unsupported  for 
a  considerable  space,  the  roof  being  perfectly  level  as  a  plane 
piece  of  rock.  Alter  traversing  about,  two  miles,  we  again 
descended  about  twenty  steps,  and  hoe  found  some  work- 
men, in  a  very  cold,  damp  place,  propping  up  a  must  dauge- 
rous  part,  which  they  were  fearful  would  give  way  every  mo- 
ment. The  path  here  is  not  more  than  three  feet  in  width  ; 
and  the  roof  so  low,  that  we  were  forced  to  stoop  consider- 
ably. On  walking  some  little  distance  farther,  we  entered 
into  a  kind  of  saloon,  cut  out  of  the  rock,  and  said  to  be  ex- 
actly under  the  Eglise  de  St.  Jaques.    This  was  illuminated 

16 


146 


THE  QUARRIES  UNDER  PARIS. 


with  great  taste,  occasioned  an  agreeable  surprise,  and  made 
us  all  ample  amends  for  the  danger  and  difficulty  we  had 
just  before  gone  through.  At  one  end  was  a  representation, 
in  miniature,  of  some  of  the  principal  forts  in  the  Indies,  with 
the  fortifications,  draw-bridges,  &c. ;  and  cannons  were  plant- 
ed with  a  couple  of  soldiers  to  each,  ready  to  fire.  Sentinels 
were  placed  in  different  parts  of  the  garrison,  particularly  be- 
fore the  governor's  house  ;  and  a  regiment  of  armed  men  was 
drawn  up  in  another  place,  with  their  general  in  the  front. 
The  whole  was  made  up  of  a  kind  of  clay  which  the  place 
affords,  was  ingeniously  contrived,  and  the  light  that  was 
thrown  upon  it  gave  a  very  pretty  effect.  On  the  other  side 
of  this  hall  was  a  long  table,  set  out  with  cold  tongues,  bread 
and  butter,  and  some  of  the  best  burgundy  I  ever  drank. 
Now  every  thing  was  hilarity  and  mirth,  and  the  danger  we 
dreaded  the  moment  before,  was  no  longer  thought  of.  In  short, 
we  were  all  in  good  spirits  again,  and  proceeded  on  our  jour- 
ney about  two  miles  farther,  when  our  guides  judged  it  prudent 
for  us  to  ascend,  as  we  were  then  got  to  the  steps  which  lead  up 
to  the  town.  We  here  found  ourselves  safe  at  the  Val  de 
Grace,  near  to  the  English  Benedictine  convent,  without  the 
least  accident  having  happened  to  any  one  of  the  party.  We 
imagined  we  had  walked  about  two  French  leagues,  and  were 
absent  from  the  surface  of  the  earth  between  four  and  five  hours. 


THE  QUARRIES  UNDER  PARIS. 


147 


"  There  were  formerly  several  openings  into  the  Quarries ; 
but  the  two  I  have  mentioned. — namely,  the  Observatory  and 
Val  de  Grace, — are  I  believe,  the  only  ones  left ;  and  these 
the  inspectors  keep  carefully  locked,  and  rarely  open  them, 
except  to  strangers  particularly  introduced,  and  to  workmen, 
who  are  always  employed  in  some  part  by  the  King.  The 
police  thought  it  a  necessary  precaution  to  secure  all  the  en- 
trances into  this  cavern,  from  its  having  been  formerly  inha- 
bited by  a  famous  band  of  robbers,  who  infested  the  country 
for  many  miles  round  Paris.  As  to  the  origin  of  this  quarry, 
I  could  not,  on  the  strictest  inquiry,  learn  any  thing  satisfac- 
tory; and  the  only  account  I  know  published,  is  the  follow- 
ing, contained  in  the  Tableaux  de  Paris,  nouvelle  edition, 
tome  premier ,  ckapitre,  5me,  page  \2me.  1  For  the  first  build- 
ing of  Paris,  it  was  necessary  to  get  the  stone  in  the  envi- 
rons, and  the  consumption  of  it  was  very  considerable.  As 
Paris  was  enlarged,  the  suburbs  were  insensibly  built  on  the 
ancient  quarries,  so  that  all  you  see  without  is  essentially 
wanting  in  the  earth  for  the  foundation  of  the  city:  hence 
proceed  the  frightful  cavities  which,  at  this  time,  are  found 
under  the  houses  in  several  quarters.  They  stand  upon 
abysses.  It  would  not  require  a  very  violent  shock  to  throw 
back  the  stones  to  the  place  from  whence  they  have  been 
raised  with  so  much  difficulty.    Eight  men  being  swallowed 


148 


THE  QUARRIES  UNDER  PARIS. 


up  in  a  gulph  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  deep,  and  some  other 
accidents,  excited,  at  length  the  vigilance  of  the  police  and 
government ;  and,  in  fact,  the  buildings  of  several  quarters 
have  been  privately  propped  up,  and  by  this  means  has  been 
given  to  these  obscure  subterraneous  places  the  support  which 
they  before  wanted.'  All  the  suburbs  of  St.  James's  Harp- 
street,  and  even  the  street  of  Tournou,  stand  upon  the  ancient 
quarries,  and  pillars  have  been  erected  to  support  the  weight 
of  the  houses.  What  a  subject  for  reflection,  in  considering 
this  great  city  formed  and  supported  by  means  absolutely 
contrary  !  These  towers,  these  steeples,  the  arched  roofs  of 
these  temples,  are  so  many  signs  to  tell  the  eye  that  what 
we  now  see  in  the  air  is  wanting  under  our  feet." 

Since  Mr.  White's  visit  to  the  Quarries,  a  great  alteration 
has  taken  place  in  the  interior  of  these  caverns :  for  the  con- 
tents of  all  the  cemeteries  in  Paris  have  been  lodged  there 
ever  since  the  memorable  Revolution ;  and  they  now  contain 
the  bones  of  three  millions  of  human  beings.  These  last  re- 
mains of  mortality  are  fancifully  arranged  on  the  floor,  in  a 
kind  of  pattern  resembling  a  Mosaic  pavement.  The  skulls 
are  heaped  in  the  form  of  an  immense  altar,  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  great  saloon ;  and  the  whole  has  a  singularly 
whimsical  appearance.  This  is,  indeed,  a  strange  proof  of 
levity  in  our  Gallic  neighbours,  who  seem  desirous  of  ex- 


THE  QUARRIES  UNDER  PARIS. 


149 


eluding  solemn  ideas  from  the  mind,  even  in  the  midst  of 
these  chambers  of  death.  A  thinking  person  will,  neverthe- 
less, feel  awed  as  he  enters  the  Quarries,  and  contemplates 
the  scene  around  him,  which  will  afford  him  a  striking  les- 
son on  the  vanity  of  human  life,  and  the  folly  of  ambition  ; 
nor  will  the  impression  be  less  vivid,  when  he  considers  that 
a  slight  shock  of  an  earthquake,  or  even  the  loosening  of 
a  prop  may  mingle  his  bones  with  those  of  these  forgotten 
millions. 


150 


HEBE. 


By  Frederick  Muller. 


Who  could  not  smile  and  sing  of  thee, 

Thou  fair  and  lovely  thing  ? 
Sweet  child,  in  all  thy  sportive  glee, 

Thou  knows' t  no  sorrowing  ! 
But  smiles,  and  joys,  and  happy  hours, 
Are  unto  thee  as  pretty  flowers : 
Not  flowers  of  earth — but  of  the  sky, 
That  bud,  and  bloom,  but  never  die ! 

There  is  no  shadow  on  thy  face, 

No  cloud  upon  thy  brow  ; 
I  love  the  silent  tranquil  grace 

Shed  o'er  thy  beauty  now  ; 
Thou  innocent  and  happy  one, 
Thou  star  of  childhood's  horizon, 
Where  sky  and  cloud  are  ever  fair, 
Without  one  shade  to  slumber  there ! 


HEBE. 


Sweet  peace  has  spread  her  gentle  wings 

Like  clouds  around  thy  form ; 
Where  thou  dost  sit — a  lovely  thing, 

Secure  from  every  storm ; 
The  dove  comes  with  her  happy  brood, 
To  murmur  o'er  thy  solitude, 
And  the  eagle  stoops  his  sunny  flight, 
Gently  beside  thy  form  of  light. 

There  thou  wilt  sit  secure  from  harm, 

And  every  earthly  sorrow: 
Each  morn  will  fill  thy  cup  of  balm, 

Without  one  thought  of  morrow ; 
And  time  will  pass  on  rainbow  wing, 
Like  a  dove  without  its  sorrowing  ; 
And  thou  wilt  ever,  ever  be, 
A  child  amidst  eternity ! 


152 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAKE. 

After  a  toilsome  day's  journey  along  the  eastern  border 
of  Lake  Champlain,  some  time  in  the  month  of  June,  1833, 
I  stopped,  as  it  grew  towards  sunset,  at  a  refreshing  spring 
by  the  wayside,  for  the  double  purpose  of  reviving  the  ener- 
gies of  my  jaded  horse,  and  of  inquiring  of  a  little  urchin 
who  was  there  filling  a  bucket,  respecting  the  distance  to 
the  nearest  inn,  or  other  house,  where  I  could  be  entertained 
until  morning.  The  instant  I  had  put  the  question,  his  intel- 
ligent eyes  seemed  to  acquire  an  additional  lustre,  and  as  if 
instinctively  prompted  by  a  particular  desire  to  serve  me,  he 
set  down  his  vessel  and  approaching,  replied,  that  it  was 
at  least  three  miles  to  the  tavern,  and  through  a  very  lonely 
way  ;  but,  added  he,  at  the  same  time,  unconsciously  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  the  bridle  which  I  was  reining  up  for  a  start, 
we  live  close  by,  in  the  white  house  you  observe  through 
the  trees  yonder,  and  I  know  my  grandfather  will  be  glad  to 
have  you  put  up  for  the  night  with  us,  I  will  take  care 
of  your  horse  myself,  and  my  mother  will  do  her  very  best  to 
get  a  good  supper, 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAKE. 


153 


The  pressing  and  artless  invitation  of  the  little  fellow  in- 
clined me  to  believe  he  knew  something  of  the  character  of 
his  parents  for  hospitality ;  and  as  the  object  of  my  tour  was 
adventure,  I  allowed  him,  as  he  had  already  put  my  horse  in 
motion,  to  lead  on.  On  turning  into  the  avenue  that  led  up 
to  the  front  of  the  mansion,  I  was  peculiarly  delighted  with 
the  simple  yet  charming  aspect  of  all  around  ;  scarcely  a 
stone  was  out  of  place,  the  bushes  and  flowers  that  skirted 
the  way  on  either  side  were  trimmed  with  such  regularity, 
and  exhibited  such  evidences  of  tasteful  industry,  that  I 
asked  my  little  guide  if  his  father  employed  a  man  solely  to 
do  the  garden  work.  He  smiled  and  said  his  father  was 
not  wealthy  enough  for  that ;  and  if  he  were,  added  he,  with 
an  air  of  satisfaction,  he  would  have  no  need,  for  I  am  able, 
and  love  to  do  such  work,  and,  indeed,  all  other  that  he  is 
willing  I  should  undertake.  I  commended  him  for  forming 
such  habits  of  industry  and  acquiescence  in  the  judgment 
of  older  persons,  and  was  about  to  ask  some  further  questions, 
when  a  pleasant  looking  elderly  gentleman,  whom  he  styled 
grandfather,  stepped  from  the  door  to  which  we  had  nearly 
arrived,  and  came  to  meet  us.  There  was  a  benignity  in  his 
every  feature  which  at  once  assured  me  of  a  welcome ;  so 
without  further  ceremony  I  dismounted,  and  briefly  relating 
the  reason  of  my  intrusion,  hoped  if  the  kind  hearted  little 


154 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAKE. 


one  had  made  a  demand  upon  his  goodness  which  it  was  not 
convenient  to  accede  to,  he  would  not  hesitate  so  to  say,  and 
then  mechanically  turned  as  if  I  would  have  remounted,  but 
my  horse  had  vanished. 

My  young  readers  will  understand  that  the  sudden  disap- 
pearance of  my  horse  was  not  owing  to  the  agency  of  any 
of  the  fabulous  beings,  which  are  so  often  foolishly  intro- 
duced in  readings  designed  for  the  youthful  minds,  the  truth 
was,  the  generous  nature  of  the  boy  could  brook  no  further 
preliminaries  than  merely  to  ascertain  the  need  of  the  stran- 
ger, so  the  moment  I  was  off  the  saddle,  the  saddle  was  off 
the  horse,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  were  both  in  a  fair  way 
for  realizing  the  substantial  gratifications  so  cheering  to  the 
weary  at  such  an  hour.  The  benevolent  host  had  interrupted 
the  train  of  apologies  usual  on  such  occasions,  by  a  most  po- 
sitive welcome,  and  in  going  the  few  steps  to  the  door,  we 
became  quite  familiar  friends ;  so  instantaneous  were  the  in- 
fluences of  that  noble  spirit  so  perceptible  in  the  manner  of 
the  child,  and  so  perfected  in  the  bearing  and  character  of 
his  amiable  relation, 

I  was  ever  a  great  lover  of  nature  ;  the  gently  sloping  hill, 
the  majestic  mountain  and  the  spreading  lawn,  possess 
charms,  that  exalt  while  they  delight  the  musing  mind  ;  but 
here  was  a  scene,  the  pleasantness  of  which  perhaps  none 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAKE. 


155 


but  travellers  can  conceive.  The  beautiful  lake  harmonizing 
with  the  tranquillity  of  the  hour,  seemed,  as  it  glided  along  a 
few  rods  before  the  portico  on  which  my  host  and  myself  were 
then  standing,  to  murmur  an  invitation  for  me  to  come  nearer, 
and  indulge  in  that  sweet  communion  with  the  past  and  ab- 
sent, that  the  contemplation  of  a  softly  flowing  sheet  of  water 
is  certain  to  inspire.  Accordingly,  when  my  new  friend  had 
presented  me  to  his  interesting  family,  the  several  members 
of  which  will  in  due  time  be  introduced  to  the  reader,  I  obeyed 
my  feelings,  and  wandering  down  to  the  margin,  was  soon 
lost  in  the  contemplation  of  the  romantic  scenery  with  which 
I  was  surrounded  ;  and  then  first  flitted  across  my  mind  the 
reminiscence  which  led  to  a  protracted  sojourn  with  the 
happy  family  upon  whose  courtesy  I  was  thus  unexpectedly 
thrown,  and,  to  the  relation  of  the  singular  and  somewhat 
romantic  incidents  forming  the  present  subject. 

Having  alluded  to  the  recollection  of  some  circumstance 
that  transpired  in  years  gone  by,  it  is  more  proper  to  inform 
the  reader  of  its  import,  and  bearing  upon  the  theme  of  these 
pages. 

During  the  late  war,  and  shortly  after  McDonough's  vic- 
tory on  Lake  Champlain,  1  was  bearing  some  private  go- 
vernment dispatches  to  the  town  of  Plattsburgh,  and  happen- 
ing to  pass  in  the  vicinity  of  the  very  spot  where  I  was  thus 


156 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAKE. 


calling  up  the  images  of  former  scenes,  my  attention  was  for- 
cibly attracted  by  a  group  of  the  three  represented  in  the  en- 
graving, standing  close  together  upon  the  beach,  gazing  in- 
tently over  the  wide  expanse  before  them,  as  if  in  eager 
anticipation  of  some  home-bound  sail.  The  singularity  of 
the  occurrence  excited  my  curiosity,  and  I  asked  for  what 
they  were  thus  earnestly  looking.  It  was  a  question  too 
much,  and  deeply  did  I  repent  of  my  inquisitiveness,  when 
I  noticed  the  instantaneous  gush  of  anguish  that  poured  from 
the  eyes  of  the  lonely  trio  :  I  would  have  given  worlds  to 
have  soothed  the  emotion  it  occasioned,  though  the  associa- 
tions it  had  unhappily  awakened,  were  yet,  to  me,  a  most  in- 
scrutable mystery.  The  eldest,  a  sweet  creature  just  bloom- 
ing into  womanhood,  gave  me  to  understand  that  her  father, 
and  another  person,  had  sailed  a  day  or  two  before  the  battle, 
in  a  small  schooner  with  a  cargo  of  supplies  for  the  Ameri- 
can fleet,  and  had  not  since  been  heard  of.  I  at  once  con- 
jectured the  nature  of  the  catastrophe,  and  promising  my  ut- 
most exertions  to  obtain  some  tidings  of  the  absent,  I  pursued 
my  journey ;  melancholy  with  the  thought  of  the  many 
dreary  days  these  little  innocents  might  unavailingly  watch 
for  the  father's  returning  prow. 

In  the  midst  of  my  reverie,  while  reflecting  upon  the  inci- 
dent just  related,  I  was  interrupted  by  my  little  friend,  inviting 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAKE. 


157 


me  to  a  participation  in  the  welcome  considerations  of  the 
table ;  and  obeying  the  hint  with  an  immediate  locomotive 
demonstration,  I  was  soon  in  the  enviable  predicament  of  one 
much  in  debt  to  an  importunate  appetite,  and,  having  the 
wherewith  to  answer  its  demands. 

The  social  evening  board,  it  is  well  known,  is  a  wonderful 
inspirer  of  conversation,  and  stirrer  up  of  the  days  "  lang 
syne ;"  wherefore,  when  the  mysterious  influence  came  on, 
I  introduced  the  subject  of  my  former  visit  to  the  Lake  with 
the  circumstance  already  detailed  to  the  reader,  concluding 
the  recital  as  follows. 

On  taking  leave  of  the  hapless  three,  I  penciled  down  the 
name  of  their  father  and  his  vessel,  determining  to  write  the 
British  commandant  at  Isle  au  Noix ;  suspecting  that  the 
cause  of  the  non-return,  was  capture  and  detention  by  the 
enemy.  Having  this  impression  on  my  mind,  I  hastened  to 
the  point  of  my  destination  to  embrace  the  first  opportunity  of 
obtaining  information. 

The  day  after  my  arrival  at  Plattsburgh,  I  fortunately 
learned  that  General  Moores  was  about  to  despatch  a  mes- 
senger to  the  British  commander  Brisbane ;  I  accordingly 
enclosed  a  note  to  the  Intendant  at  Isle  au  Noix,  inquiring  if 
the  person  I  named  was  a  prisoner  there,  and  if  so,  whether 
his  vessel  could  be  redeemed,  and  himself  exchanged  for  any 


158 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAKE. 


prisoner  in  the  American  camp.  With  return  of  the  de- 
spatch I  received  an  affirmative  reply,  and  was  also  informed 
that  the  individual  accompanying  the  one  whose  enlarge" 
ment  I  solicited,  could  also  be  released  on  similar  conditions. 
As  communication  was  necessarily  much  obstructed,  the  let- 
ter contained  at  once  all  requisite  information  relative  to  the 
appraisal  of  the  prize,  and  the  persons  demanded  in  exchange. 

Enjoying  considerable  influence  in  Plattsburg,  I  readily 
succeeded  in  procuring  the  liberation  of  the  one  last  named  in 
the  overture ;  but  the  other,  being  a  British  lieutenant,  was 
detained  a  fortnight  longer,  that  a  court  martial  might  decide 
upon  the  merits  of  my  petition.  The  result  being  favourable, 
I  paid  into  his  hands,  on  the  day  of  his  departure,  the  sum 
demanded  for  the  vessel,  and  giving  instructions  for  its  im- 
mediate application  to  the  purpose  intended  on  his  arrival 
at  Isle  au  Noix,  I  left  Plattsburgh  pursuant  to  an  order  from 
the  President  to  return  to  Washington.  Having  thus  ful- 
filled what  I  conceived  heaven  to  have  thrown  in  my  way 
as  a  pleasant  duty,  I  left  the  issue  to  work  out  as  it  would ; 
being  so  absorbed  in  the  responsibilities  of  my  station  from 
that  time  to  the  close  of  the  war,  that  1  remained,  and  am  to 
this  day  ignorant  of  the  final  eventuation  ;  nor  have  I  now 
the  smallest  facility  in  ascertaining,  having  long  since  lost 
the  memoranda  of  the  names,  dates,  &c. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAKE. 


159 


When  my  relation  was  ended,  the  table,  which  by  the  way, 
had  served,  rather  to  support  the  elbows  of  my  listening  asso- 
ciates,  than  in  its  legitimate  capacity,  was  removed,  and  I 
was  about  making  another  draft  upon  my  memory  for  some 
other  topic  for  our  entertainment.  My  new  friend,  however,  in- 
terrupted my  ruminations  by  remarking  that  my  story  corres- 
ponded well  with  the  history  of  a  person  with  whom  he  was 
acquainted,  and  that  if  I  pleased,  he  would  relate  his  friend's 
adventures.  He  began  precisely  where  I  had  ceased,  and  I 
very  soon  delightedly  discovered  that  accident  was  about  to 
reveal  the  sequel  of  this,  perhaps,  the  most  romantic  incident 
with  which  I  was  identified. 

The  person  before  spoken  of  as  having  been  first  liberated 
from  British  durance,  on  his  enlargement,  repaired  to  his 
home,  and  within  two  or  three  days  was  appointed  master  of 
a  gun  boat,  and  boldly  hoisted  sail  upon  that  very  water 
where  so  recently  he  had  been  made  captive.  A  challenge 
was  made,  as  was  often  the  case,  on  private  account,  by  the 
Canadian  cruisers  in  these  small,  craft,  to  the  little  American 
flotilla  to  which  our  brave  commander  was  attached.  The 
offer  was  accepted,  and  the  hostile  parties  were  soon  seen 
stretching  for  the  scene  of  combat.  The  keen  eye  of  our  pre- 
sent hero  soon  discovered  in  the  enemy's  line  the  identical 
bottom,  which,  together  with  his  own  personal  liberty,  the 


160 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAKE. 


unceremonious  adversary  had  so  lately  appropriated  to  him- 
self. That  sight,  and  the  consequent  reflections,  probably 
decided  the  fate  of  the  action,  by  inspiring  an  invincible  re- 
solution that  no  opposition  could  withstand ;  the  several 
crews  soon  caught  the  ardour,  and  to  meet,  and  conquer  was 
a  moment's  work.  The  schooner  was  re-captured  by  our  hero 
and  carried  in  triumph  back  to  the  port  from  which  she  had 
sailed  when  laden  with  supplies  for  McDonough's  fleet. 

A  few  days  subsequent  to  the  rencontre,  the  lieutenant 
who  had  been  exchanged  for  the  owner  of  the  now  re-captured 
vessel,  arrived  at  Isleau  Noix.  According  to  the  stipulation, 
the  American  was  immediately  provided  with  a  passport  be- 
yond the  British  line;  and  the  gold,  which  was  to  have  re- 
deemed his  vessel,  honourably  given  into  his  possession;  as 
the  fortune  of  war  had,  already  as  above  stated,  re-taken  the 
prize  from  the  captor  s  hands.  He  returned  safely  to  the 
bosom  of  his  family,  and  joining  in  partnership  with  his 
friend  in  further  adventure  and  speculation  in  the  way  he 
had  before  attempted,  amassed  in  a  few  years  a  very  consider- 
able competence,  and  then  retired  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  his 
turmoil,  at  a  pleasant  estate  not  far  from  this  ;  his  two  daugh- 
ters, in  the  mean  time,  having  been  united  in  wedlock  to  the 
two  sons  of  his  friend,  whose  fortunes  had  been  so  closely 
linked  with  his  own.    The  little  fellow,  his  son,  the  second 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAKE. 


161 


figure  in  the  engraving,  some  two  or  three  years  since  ob- 
tained a  lieutenancy  in  the  navy,  and  is  now  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean station. 

My  impatience  to  see  the  interesting  family,  and  look 
again  upon  the  sisters  whom  last  I  left  weeping  upon  the 
dreary  shore,  was  now  wrought  to  such  intensity,  that  I  would 
willingly  have  started  instantly  in  search,  though  the  night 
was  lowering  and  far  on  the  wane  ;  but,  as  reason  and  nature 
dictated,  we  all  retired  to  rest,  my  kind  host  agreeing  to  guide 
me  in  the  morning  to  his  friend's  abode. 

With  the  first  d awnings  of  Aurora  I  rose  and  equipped  for 
the  visit;  my  companion  for  the  journey,  aware  of  my  ex- 
citement, had  our  horses  in  readiness,  and  before  the  early 
birds  were  stirring,  we  were  well  upon  the  road.  At  a  dis- 
tance of  about  seven  miles,  we  halted  at  the  place  of  destina- 
tion ;  a  spacious,  neat  establishment,  where  industry  and  easy 
competence  were  unitedly  apparent.  The  family  were  seated 
at  the  morning  repast,  my  friend  taking  me  by  the  arm, 
walked  in,  and  accosted  them  with  familiar  salutation,  ob- 
served to  the  old  gentleman  at  the  head  of  the  table,  "  This 
is  the  friend  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  our  unexpected  de- 
liverance when  prisoners  at  Isle  an  Noix."  At  this  announce- 
ment a  most  pleasurable  astonishment,  for  a  moment,  pre- 
vented all  utterance,  myself  being  as  much  confounded  at 
17 


162 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAKE. 


finding  my  noble  entertainer  a  party,  as  the  others  were  at 
the  sudden  appearance  of  one  so  long  a  subject  of  most  grate- 
ful remembrance.  .After  a  welcome,  the  fervency  of  which 
a  thousand  times  repaid  my  service,  I  was  made  acquainted 
with  the  several  members  of  the  family.  The  eldest  daugh- 
ter, now  the  happy  wife  of  the  old  gentleman's  son,  and  re- 
sident, with  her  husband,  under  his  roof,  recognized  my  fea- 
tures and  voice,  and  vividly  described  the  occasion  of  our 
former  interview. 

In  order  to  a  more  complete  demonstration  of  their  heart- 
felt happiness,  the  two  old  associates  resolved  on  a  meeting 
of  all  their  families  and  kindred  at  the  mansion  of  my  host, 
where  we  returned  the  same  afternoon.  Here  1  was  welcomed 
by  the  second  daughter,  who  at  the  scene  on  the  border  of 
the  lake,  was  quite  an  infant ;  now,  the  mother  of  the  intelli- 
gent little  one,  to  whose  good  nature  we  owed  our  present 
mutual  gratification.  Though  married,  she  was  domiciliated 
with  her  parents;  her  husband  being  captain  of  a  whale 
ship,  and  now  at  sea.  She  then  explained  to  me  that  her  fa- 
ther had  enjoined  upon  herself  and  mother  not  to  divulge  the 
secret  of  their  identification  with  my  lake  adventure,  until  he 
should  be  prepared  to  give  me  the  complete  and  pleasureable 
surprise  consummated  in  the  morning. 

When  the  festivities  were  over;  and  I  was  about  pursuing 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LAKE.  163 

my  journey,  my  venerable  friend,  with  tears  for  my  depart- 
ure, and  joy  for  the  opportunity  of  returning  what  he  called 
my  own,  put  into  my  hands  the  deeds  of  a  small  estate  he 
had  purchased  with  the  sum  I  had  advanced  for  the  redemp- 
tion of  his  vessel,  but  which  vessel,  as  before  mentioned,  the 
fortune  of  war  had  thrown  into  his  friend's  possession.  Feel- 
ing no  desire  for  the  re-acquisition  of  what  I  had  once  cheer- 
fully bestowed,  I  begged  he  would  apportion  it  to  his  three 
amiable  children,  and  accept  in  addition,  my  draft  for  a  trifle, 
to  be  given  to  his  grandson,  when  he  came  of  age,  as  a  me- 
mento of  his  kindness  to  a  stranger,  and  that  stranger's  ap- 
preciation of  a  virtuous  disposition  and  a  noble  heart. 

R  . 


164 


"  THE  STREAM'S  NOT  DEEP  LLERENA. » 

The  morning  sun  is  smiling  now, 
And  glances  o'er  the  sparkling  brook; 
And  see,  the  rippling  waters  flow, 
O'er  the  smooth  stones — dear  sister,  look! 

See  then  I've  raised  a  pretty  bower, 
So  nicely  sheltered  from  the  sun : 
And  many  a  vine  and  many  a  flower, 
Along  the  turf  I've  trained  to  run. 

The  violet  there  beside  the  stream, 
And  there  the  lily  stands  alone: 
And  see  how  beautiful  the  wave, 
Ripples  around  yon  mossy  stone. 

Dear  sister  come,  a  wild  flower  wreath, 
And  garlands  have  been  made  for  you  : 
And  I  have  gathered  from  the  heath, 
The  blue-bell  bathed  in  morning  dew. 

Oh,  cross  with  me,  and  all  the  morn 
We'll  wander  by  the  shelving  shore. 
Come — fear  me  not — my  arm  is  strong, 
And  I  will  lead  thee  safely  o'er.  R. 


H.Corhcuid  Dd. 


LLEREM   CROSSING    T IVK  BROOK, 


165 


THE  BIRDS  AND  THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAGDAT. 


By  Miss  Jewsbury. 


"  What  a  miserable  world  this  is!1'  exclaimed  Karoun  the 
beggar,  as  he  sat  one  day  at  the  gates  of  the  city  of  Bagdat ; 
H  Were  I  to  make  it  over  again,  I  could  exceedingly  mend 
it !  My  world  should  contain  no  kings,  and  certainly  no  cadis 
— every  one  should  do  that  which  was  right  in  his  own  eyes — 
it  should  be  possible  to  get  money  without  working  for  it — 
and  knowledge  without  learning.  Allah  !  what  a  miserable 
world  is  this.  Of  what  use  are  the  tribes  of  children,  forever 
interrupting  one  with  their  noisy  play? — Without  doubt,  we 
should  be  well  rid  of  some  thousands ; — and  their  mothers, — 
why  are  women  such  tender,  delicate  creatures  %  In  my 
world,  they  should  be  as  strong  as  horses,  and  dig,  and  plant, 
and  go  to  battle,  like  their  husbands.  Then,  with  regard  to 
gold,  and  silver,  and  precious  stones,  there  should  either  be 
plenty  for  every  one,  or  else  none  at  all, — the  same  of  palaces 
—the  same  of  fine  horses  and  rich  clothes.    As  to  diseases 


166 


THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAGDAT. 


and  misfortunes,— I  would  abolish  them  altogether,  just  as  I 
would  do  away  with  poisons,  precipices,  storms,  earthquakes, 
and  whatever  else  tends  to  shorten  life.  Oh,  what  a  beauti- 
ful world  I  would  make  of  this  !  However,  I  feel  inclined  for 
a  nap,  at  present,  so  I  will  remove  to  yonder  grove  for  the  be- 
nefit of  the  shade." 

The  self-complacent  beggar  accordingly  stretched  himself 
beneath  a  large  plane  tree,  and  presently  fell  into  a  sound 
slumber;  in  which  slumber  he  was  visited  with  the  folio  wing 
dream. — He  fancied  himself  exactly  where  he  was,  lying  un- 
der a  plane  tree,  but  he  also  fancied  he  heard  a  most  extra- 
ordinary noise  proceed  from  the  branches.  He  further  fan- 
cied that,  on  lifting  up  his  eyes  to  discover  the  cause,  he 
found  the  plane  tree  filled  with  birds  of  all  nations,  and  oc- 
cupied, according  to  their  ability,  in  screaming,  singing, 
whistling,  and  chattering.  They  were  more  vociferous  than 
all  the  beggars  of  Bagdat,  and  grievously  annoyed  our  friend 
Karoun.  By  and  by  the  plane  tree  became  quiet,  the  birds 
ranged  themselves  on  the  boughs,  in  companies  according  to 
their  kind,— and  the  beggar  discovered  that  it  was  a  "  Par- 
liament of  Birds,"  met  to  deliberate  on  the  state  of  the  fea- 
thered world.  The  golden  eagle  sat  aloft  in  silent  majesty ; 
and  a  venerable  horned  owl  opened  the  business  of  the 
meeting,  by  entreating  the  members  to  conduct  the  debate 


THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAGDAT. 


167 


with  decorum,  and  bear  in  mind  that  wisdom  was  never  con- 
fined to  the  birds  of  one  generation.  He  was  followed  by  a 
superb  red-and-green  parrot,  who  scratched  his  head,  and 
spoke  as  follows. 

"  I  conceive  that,  for  many  ages,  birds  have  been  grossly  ill 
used  by  nature ;  and  I  hail  the  meeting  of  the  present  assem- 
bly, as  a  proof  that  the  rights  and  the  privileges  of  all  who 
have  claws  and  beaks  are  about  to  be  better  understood.  I 
do  not  speak  for  myself.  My  fate  makes  me  the  associate 
of  man,  and  the  favourite  of  ladies ;  I  am  fed  with  dainties, 
and  observe  all  that  passes  in  dining  and  drawing  rooms — 
for  myself  I  have  little  reason  to  complain — I  speak  as  a  pa- 
triot ; — why  should  not  all  birds  have  the  privileges  of  par- 
rots !  Is  it  not  gross  partiality,  that  we  alone  should  have  gilt 
cages  % 

The  speaker  ceased  amidst  tremendous  applause.  A  crow 
spoke  next. 

"I  agree  with  the  parrot,"  said  he,  "in  blaming  nature; 
but  I  disagree  with  him,  as  to  his  mode  of  charging  her  with 
injustice.  The  evil  lies  deeper.  There  ought  to  be  no  gil^ 
cages;  no  fine  plumage  ;  no  sweet  voices  amongst  us.  Why 
is  one  kind  of  bird  to  be  exalted  over  another  ?  and  yet  this 
will  ever  be  the  case  whilst  these  vain  and  useless  distinc- 
tions remain  in  force. 


168 


THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAGDAT. 


"  Why  am  I  to  serve  the  farmer,  by  clearing  his  fields  of 
grubs  and  worms,  and  be  considered  a  lowlived  bird  because 
I  am  only  useful ;  whilst  the  nightingale  is  to  be  followed  by 
admiration,  because  she — sings  !  Why  does  not  man  write 
poetry  about  me  ?  What  is  the  nightingale  but  a  bird  like 
myself?  is  not  she" — 

Here  the  crow  was  called  to  order,  and  a  very  beautiful 
dove  spoke  next. 

"I  do  not  complain,"  said  she,  "of  what  the  preceding 
orators  have  complained ;  my  complaint  is,  that  distinction 
does  not  make  amends  for  conscious  weakness.  What  sig- 
nify my  delicate  plumage  and  tender  note,  while  I  want  the 
eagle's  wing,  and  the  hawk's  eye?" 

Here  the  owl  attempted  to  speak  next,  but  was  prevented 
by  a  magpie. 

"My  case,"  said  that  chatterer,  "is  harder  still;  my  plu- 
mage is  beautiful,  but  no  one  wrill  own  it ; — I  talk,  but  no 
one  will  listen  to  me ;— I  am  a  persecuted  bird — an  envied 
genius." 

Here  the  magpie  was  interrupted  by  a  sparrow. 
"  Why  am  I  to  be  shot  for  a  dumpling  any  more  than  the 
red-breast  V ' 

"  And  why,"  said  the  lark,  "Am  I  to  be  roasted  any  more 
than  the  nightingale?" 


THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAG0AT. 


169 


u  Why  are  we  to  be  preyed  upon  by  kites  and  hawks  ?"  said 
all  the  little  birds  in  chorus. 

"  Let  us  rebel,"  said  the  tomtits. 

u  Let  us  be  kites  and  hawks  ourselves,55  said  the  jenny- 
wrens. 

"  Let  us  leave  man  to  pick  up  his  own  caterpillars/7  said 
the  sparrows;  "the  world  will  come  to  an  end  without  us!1' 

"It  will!  it  will!"  screamed  all  the  birds  that  were  pre- 
cisely of  the  least  consequence. 

At  this  point,  at  once  of  the  dream  and  the  debate,  Karoun 
fancied  that  he  was  called  upon  for  his  opinion,  and  that  he 
thus  addressed  the  congress  of  birds : — - 

"  With  the  exception  of  the  eagle  and  the  owl,  who,  to  do 
them  justice,  are  sensible,  well  behaved  bipeds,  you  are  a  set 
of  foolish,  insolent,  half-witted  creatures,  not  worthy  of  wear- 
ing feathers.  Listen  now  to  reason  ;  and  since  birds  cannot 
blush,  hide  your  heads  under  your  wings  for  shame. 

"  In  the  first  place,  Mr.  Parrot,  if  every  bird  is  to  live  in  a 
gilt  cage,  and  hang  up  in  a  drawing  room,  pray  where  is  man 
to  live  himself? 

"  In  the  second  place,  I  ask  Mr.  Crow,  whether  he  clears 
the  farmers'  fields  of  worms  from  love  to  the  farmer,  or  from 
desire  of  a  good  meal? 

"  Thirdly,  if  any  of  you,  after  a  reasonable  enjoyment  of 
18 


170 


THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAGDAT, 


life,  object  to  being  killed  to  feed  man,  why,  I  ask,  may  not 
the  grubs  and  flies  also  object  to  being  killed,  in  order  to  feed 
you? 

"  Fourthly,  if  you  were  all  of  one  kind — all  eagles  or  all 
kites — would  there  not  be  ten  times  more  fighting  amongst 
you  than  there  is  ?  and  what,  I  ask,  must  you  all  live  upon  ? 

"Fifthly,  if  you  object  to  dying  altogether,  and  yet  con- 
tinue to  treble  your  numbers  every  year,  how,  I  ask,  is  the 
world  to  hold  you  all  1  As  for  you,"  continued  the  beggar^ 
turning  in  great  wrath  towards  the  sparrows,  the  chaffinches, 
the  larks,  the  wrens,  and  all  who  resembled  them,  "  who  is 
it  that  steals  man's  corn — eats  man's  cherries — pecks  man's 
peas  ?  Little,  mischievous,  prating  varlets  as  you  are,  your 
lives  are  forfeited  fifty  times  before  they  are  taken  ! 

"  Lastly,  I  entreat  you  all,  from  the  eagle  down  to  the  tom- 
tit, to  look  away  from  your  own  individual  interests,  to  the  inte- 
rests of  the  world,  of  which  you  form  but  a  small  portion.  I 
do  assure  you,  my  friends,  it  is  infinitely  better,  on  the  whole} 
that  you  should  differ  from  each  other,  just  as  you  do ; — that 
some  should  be  s  rong,  some  weak,  some  beautiful,  some  ugly ; 
some  wear  fine  coats,  and  some  plain  ones.  And  now  be- 
gone, every  one  of  you. — Disperse,  I  say  ! — and  instead  of 
wishing  to  amend  nature,  try  to  mend  your  own  manners." 

Straightway  there  was  a  great  whirring  of  wings  in  the 


THE  BEGGAR  OP  BAGDAT. 


171 


air,  occasioned  by  the  breaking  up  of  the  bird  parliament  ; 
and  in  a  few  minutes  all  was  silent-  It  was  now  Karoun' s 
turn  to  be  reproved. 

"  Presumptuous  mortal!"  said  an  awful  voice.  Karoun 
started — and  behold,  he  saw  in  his  dream,  a  majestic  form 
by  his  side,  clothed  with  wings  and  shining  garments. — 
"  Presumptuous  mortal!"  continued  the  Genius,  "thou  hast 
had  no  pity  on  the  folly  of  the  birds,  and  yet  thine  own  is  far 
greater.  Thou  mend  the  world  !  Thy  mending  would  be  its 
destruction  !  Were  there  no  disease  and  no  misfortune,  how 
oould  man  exercise  the  virtues  which  fit  him  to  enjoy  Para- 
dise ?  As  to  death,  is  it  other  than  a  blessing  to  the  righteous  ? 
And  if  thou  art  wicked,  is  it  not  thine  own  fault  ?  Next,  if 
all  possessed  riches,  who  must  work  ?  And  if  no  one  had 
riches,  who  must  pay  for  that  work?  Also,  if  everyone  were 
wise,  who  must  learn  ?  And  if  every  one  were  ignorant,  who 
must  teach  %  Again,  if  all  had  leisure,  and  there  were  no  law 
or  cadi,  thou  thinkest  the  world  would  be  happier  ; — no  such 
thing  !  where  there  are  two  battles,  there  would  be  twenty; 
where  there  are  five  robberies  there  would  be  fifty;  and  for 
one  lazy,  discontented  vagabond  like  thyself,  there  would  be 
a  thousand !  Get  up,  Karoun,  and  go  about  thy  business ; 
and  instead  of  wishing  to  mend  the  world,  try  to  mend  thine 
own  manners," 


172 


THE  BEGGAR  OF  BAG DAT. 


Thus  saying,  the  Genius  vanished,  and  Karoun  immedi- 
ately awoke.  After  musing*  awhile,  on  his  strange  dream, 
he  returned  to  the  city  of  Bagdat  much  wiser  than  he  had 
left  it.  It  is  but  fair  to  say,  that  he  immediately  gave  up  his 
profession  as  a  beggar,  and  hiring  himself  to  a  fisherman,  be- 
came a  much  more  respectable  and  contented  personage 
than  he  had  ever  heen  before. 


173 


THE  WIND  IN  A  FROLIC. 


By  William  Howitt. 


The  wind  one  morning  sprang  up  from  sleep, 
Saying,  "  Now  for  a  frolic  !  now  for  a  leap ! 
Now  for  a  mad-cap  galloping  chase  ! 
I'll  make  a  commotion  in  every  place !" 
So  it  swept  with  a  bustle  right  through  a  great  town, 
Creaking  the  signs,  and  scattering  down 
Shutters  ;  and  whisking,  with  merciless  squalls, 
Old  women's  bonnets  and  gingerbread  stalls: 
There  never  was  heard  a  much  lustier  shout, 
As  the  apples  and  oranges  trundled  about ; 
And  the  urchins,  that  stand  with  their  thievish  eyes 
For  ever  on  watch,  ran  off  each  with  a  prize. 
Then  away  to  the  field,  it  went  blust'ring  and  humming. 
And  the  cattle  all  wonder' d  whatever  was  coming; 
It  pluck' d  by  their  tails  the  grave,  matronly  cows, 
And  toss'd  the  colt's  manes  all  about  their  brows, 
'Till  offended  at  such  a  familiar  salute, 
They  all  turn'd  their  backs,  and  stood  sullenly  mute. 


174 


THE  WIND  IN  A  FROLIC. 


So  on  it  went,  capering  and  playing  its  pranks, 
Whistling  with  reeds  on  the  broad  river's  banks, 
Puffing  the  birds  as  they  sat  on  the  spray, 
Or  the  traveller  grave  on  the  king's  highway. 
It  was  not  too  nice  to  hustle  the  bags 
Of  the  beggar,  and  nutter  his  dirty  rags : 
'Twas  so  bold,  that  it  fear'd  not  to  play  its  joke 
With  the  doctor's  wig  or  the  gentleman's  cloak. 
Through  the  forest  it  roar'd,  and  cried  gaily,  "  Now, 
You  sturdy  old  oaks,  I'll  make  you  bow  !" 
And  it  made  them  bow  without  more  ado, 
And  crack' d  their  great  branches  through  and  through. 

Then  it  rush'd  like  a  monster  on  cottage  and  farm, 

Striking  their  dwellers  with  sudden  alarm ; 

And  they  ran  out  like  bees  in  a  midsummer  swarm : 

There  were  dames  with  their  'kerchiefs  tied  over  their  caps, 

To  see  if  their  poultry  were  free  from  mishaps : 

The  turkeys  they  gobbled,  the  geese  scream' d  aloud, 

And  the  hens  crept  to  roost  in  a  terrified  crowd : 

There  was  rearing  of  ladders,  and  logs  laying  on 

Where  the  thatch  from  the  roof  threatened  soon  to  be  gone. 

But  the  wind  had  pass'd  on,  and  had  met,  in  a  lane, 
With  a  schoolboy  who  panted  and  struggled  in  vain ; 


THE  WIND  IN  A  FROLIC. 


175 


For  it  toss'd  him  and  twirl' d  him,  then  pass'd,  and  he  stood 
With  his  hat  in  a  pool  and  his  shoe  in  the  mud. 

There  was  a  poor  man,  hoar  j  and  old, 
Cutting  the  heath  on  the  open  wold  ; 
The  strokes  of  his  bill  were  faint  and  few, 
Ere  this  frolicsome  wind  upon  him  blew ; 
But  behind  him,  before  him,  about  him  it  came, 
And  the  breath  seenr  d  gone  from  his  feeble  frame  ; 
So  he  sat  him  down,  with  a  muttering  tone,' 
Saying,  "  Plague  on  the  wind  !  was  the  like  ever  known  ? 
But  now-a-days  every  wind  that  blows, 
Tells  one  how  weak  an  old  man  grows !" 

But  away  went  the  wind  in  its  holiday  glee, 
And  now  it  was  far  on  the  billowy  sea, 
And  the  lordly  ships  felt  its  staggering  blow, 
And  the  little  boats  darted  to  and  fro. 
But  lo  !  it  was  night,  and  it  sank  to  rest, 
On  the  sea-bird's  rock,  in  the  gleaming  west, 
Laughing,  to  think  in  its  fearful  fun, 
How  little  of  mischief  it  had  done. 


176 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  TWO  PIGEONS ; 

OR, 

TO  OBLIGE  QUICKLY  IS  TO  OBLIGE  TWICE. 


By  Miss  Jewsbury. 


"  To-day  is  come,  brother/'  said  little  Julia,  "  now  lend 
me  what  you  promised." 

"Dear  child,"  replied  her  brother,  "don't  tease  so;  you 
see  how  busy  I  am." 

"But  you  said,  Charles  53 

"  Yes,  I  know  what  I  said  :  I  said,  that  some  day  or  other 
I  would  lend  you  my  large  cup  and  ball." 

"  Some  day  will  never  come!"  said  Julia,  disconsolately. 

"My  dear,"  replied  her  brother  Charles,  with  a  very  im- 
portant air,  "you  should  choose  good  times  for  reminding 
people  of  their  promises.    You  always  come  when  I  am  busy, 


STORY  OF  THE  TWO  PIGEONS. 


177 


or  when  I  am  going  out,  or  when,  in  fact,  it  is  not  convenient 
to  attend  to  you." 

"You  were  doing  nothing  when  I  asked,  yesterday,  bro- 
ther." 

"  No  :  but  I  was  just  going  to  do  something  very  particu- 
lar." 

u  And  to-day — oh,  you  are  not  busy  now !  do,  dear  Charles 
lend  me  the  pretty  cup  and  ball ;  I  will  take  such  great  care 
of  it." 

"  Why,  Julia,  I  would  fetch  it  you  directly,  but  really  the 
string  is  broken ;  and  papa  wants  me  to  walk  with  him,  so  1* 
cannot  stop  to  fasten  on  a  fresh  string  ; — but  without  joking^ 
Julia,  you  shall  have  it  to-morrow." 

Charles  went  to  walk  with  his  papa,  and  Julia  to  solace 
herself  with  her  own  playthings.  She  was  not  an  ill 
tempered  child;  but  she  felt  exceedingly  disappointed,  and 
almost  inclined  to  think  her  brother  ill  natured.  Ill  natured 
he  was  not,  but  he  was  thoughtless.  He  loved  his  sister  af- 
fectionately ;  but  he  was  apt  at  times  to  love  his  own  ease 
and  pleasure  better.  When  the  next  day  came,  and  Julia 
again  made  her  request,  a  conversation  very  like  the  preced- 
ing again  took  place.  Charles  made  fresh  excuses  and  pro- 
mises, and  Julia  experienced  a  fresh  disappointment. 

Neither  of  the  children  was  aware  that  their  mamma  had 


178 


STORY  OF  THE  TWO  PIGEONS; 


heard  and  observed  all  that  had  passed.  This  had,  however, 
been  the  case ;  and  as  she  did  not  wish  her  little  girl  to  get 
a  habit  of  desiring  what  belonged  to  another,  she  purchased 
a  cup  and  ball,  which  she  gave  Julia  for  her  own ;  and  told 
her,  at  the  same  time,  why  she  did  so. 

u  Oh,  mamma  !"  exclaimed  Charles,  who  was  standing  by 
at  the  time,  "  I  am  very  sorry, — not  sorry,  I  mean,  that  poor 
Julia  has  got  what  she  so  much  wished,  but  sorry  that  I  have 
seemed  so  ill  natured.  Mamma,  I  will  give  Julia  my  barrel 
organ  to  make  amends." 

"  There  is  no  occasion  for  that,  my  dear,"  replied  his  mam. 
rna ;  "  Julia  does  not  require  any  present,  to  be  convinced  that 
you  did  not  mean  to  be  ill  natured ;  and  it  is  better  that  you 
should  feel  a  little  mortified,  and  not,  by  a  sudden  act  of  ge- 
nerosity, purchase  back,  as  it  were,  your  own  good  opinion, 
and  perhaps  commit  the  same  fault  again  to-morrow.  To 
oblige  quickly,  my  dear  boy,  is  to  oblige  twice." 
"  Mamma,  I  will  try  to  remember  that." 
"  Do  so,  my  love;  and  in  order  to  assist  your  memory,  I 
will  tell  you  a  story,  or  more  properly,  perhaps,  a  fable." 

Julia  was  not  above  five  years  old ;  and  Charles,  though 
much  taller  and  stronger,  was  not  more  than  two  years  older 
than  his  sister ;  so  their  mamma's/a^w  was  very  short  and 
simple.    Here  it  is,  just  as  she  told  it  them. 


STORY  OF  THE  TWO  PIGEONS. 


179 


"  In  a  certain  dove-cote  there  once  lived  two  pigeons,  re- 
markable for  being  very  pretty,  and  very  fond  of  each  other. 
The  name  of  the  one  was  Whitethroat,  and  the  name  of  the 
other  was  Speckledwings.  They  were  of  the  kind  called 
carrier-pigeons — pigeons  trained  to  carry  letters  from  place 
to  place." 

"Oh,  how  we  should  like  to  have  one,  mamma!" 

"  Very  likely  ;  but,  until  you  can  both  write,  one  would  be 
of  no  use ;  and  even  then,  I  think,  the  post  will  carry  your 
letters  better, — however,  let  me  go  on  with  my  tale.  It  hap- 
pened one  summer,  that  Whitethroat,  the  youngest  of  the 
birds,  fell  sick,  and  could  not  fly  with  even  a  little  note  to 
the  next  town,  which  was  only  two  miles  off.  Speckled- 
wings  was  exceedingly  sorry,  and  was  continually  wishing 
that  he  could  do  or  get  any  thing  to  make  his  dear  White- 
throat  better.  One  morning,  as  he  was  going  out  as  usual, 
the  sick  bird  told  him  that  she  had  just  fancied  that  she  could 
like  a  ripe,  fresh  ear  of  corn,  gathered  from  a  particular  field 
that  lay  near  the  town  to  which  they  were  in  the  habit  of 
going. 

" 1 1  will  be  sure  and  bring  it,'  said  Speckledwings ;  1  it  shall 
be  the  finest  ear  of  corn  in  the  whole  field  ;  and  if  it  were  fifty 
miles  further,  I  would  fetch  it  you.' 

"  So  saying,  off  he  flew.    Oh,  dear  me  !  what  a  sad  thing 


180 


STORY  OF  THE  TWO  PIGEONS. 


it  is  to  have  a  short  memory,  or  to  be  very  careless,  or  to  be 
fond  of  play  at  the  wrong  time !  Speckledwings  delivered 
the  letter  tied  to  his  wing,  and  set  off  home  again,  fully  de- 
termined to  remember  his  promise.  But,  just  before  he 
reached  the  corn-field,  he  fell  in  with  a  flock  of  neighbouring 
pigeons,  and  he  could  not  resist  their  invitation  to  take  a 
flight  in  an  opposite  direction  ;  which  flight  lasted  so  long 
that  he  had  only  time  to  fly  home  before  it  grew  quite  dusk. 
Whitethroat  had  been  expecting  him  a  very  long  time,  and 
felt  sadly  disappointed  when  he  came  without  her  ear  of  corn  ; 
but  poor  Speckledwings  seemed  so  ashamed  of  himself,  that 
she  could  not  find  in  her  heart  to  blame  him  ;  and  even  the 
next  morning,  she  only  said,  1  Dear  Speckledwings,  please 
don't  forget  me  to-day.7 

"  1  Trust  me,  my  dear  Whitethroat;  I  am  positive  I  shall 
not  disappoint  you  this  time.' 

"Well;  and  this  time  Speckledwings  really  had  alighted 
in  the  field,  and  was  just  preparing  to  pluck  a  beautiful  ear 
of  corn,  when,  as  ill  fortune  would  have  it,  up  comes  a  prat- 
ing magpie. 

" L  And  have  you  heard  the  news  V  cried  he,  as  soon  as  he 
caught  sight  of  the  pigeon. 

"  {  What  nrws  V  said  Speckledwings. 

"l Bless  me!'  cried  the  magpie,  in  a  very  consequential 


STORY  OF  THE  TWO  PIGEONS. 


181 


manner  ;  1  why,  you  know  really  nothing  of  polite  life,  how- 
ever, come  with  me  out  of  the  hearing  of  those  vulgar  spar- 
rows, and,  as  you  are  a  particular  friend,  I  will  let  you  into 
the  secret." 

"  Flattery  and  curiosity  together  quite  overcame  Speckled- 
wings  ;  and,  forgetting  poor  Whitethroat,  he  flew  away  to 
listen  to  the  magpie's  tale.  It  was  a  very  long  one ;  and 
afterwards  our  pigeon  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  re- 
peating it  to  a  crow ;  so  the  long  and  the  short  of  the  matter 
is,  that  he  went  home  again  without  his  errand. 

"  Speckledwings  felt  excessively  troubled,  particularly  as 
Whitethroat  seemed  rather  worse  ;  and  he  declared  and  vow- 
ed, that  if  he  forgot  again,  he  would  pull  his  wings  off  for 
grief.  To  show,  however,  what  comes  of  boasting  and 
promising,  he  did  forget  again ;  and  Whitethroat  really  be- 
gan to  doubt  his  love  for  her. 

"  On  the  fourth  day  Speckledwings  made  the  only  amends 
in  his  power;  he  would  speak  to  no  bird,  join  in  no  play,  so 
anxious  was  he  to  atone  for  his  former  neglect.  After  mak- 
ing his  usual  visit  to  the  town,  he  flew  straight  back  to  the 
field,  plucked  the  very  finest  ear  of  corn  he  could  discover, 
and  made  haste  home  with  it  to  Whitethroat.  Whitethroat 
thanked  him  for  it ;  '  but  oh !  Speckledwings,'  said  she, 
1  waiting  and  expecting  sadly  spoil  the  flavour  of  any  thing. 


182 


STORY  OF  THE  TWO  PIGEONS. 


I  am  much  obliged  to  you  to-day,  but  I  should  have  been  still 
more  obliged  the  first  day.'  91 

"  And  did  Whitethroat  get  better?"' 

"  Yes,  love ;  and  Speckledwings  never  again  forgot  to 
bring  her  an  ear  of  corn  every  day,  till  she  was  able  to  go 
out  herself" 


183 


THE  PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 

"The  fam'ly  all  sit  beside  the  fire, 
But,  oh  !  a  seat  is  empty  now." — Crabbe. 

Bennington,  the  former  capital  of  Vermont,  and  one  of 
the  oldest  towns  in  the  state,  was  so  named  from  Benning 
Wentworth,  one  of  its  most  enterprising  first  settlers.  It  is 
situated  in  the  south-western  part  of  Vermont,  on  a  large 
branch  of  the  river  Hoosac,  which  flows  between  the  town 
and  the  Green  Mountains,  from  which  the  settlements  are 
distant  but  a  few  miles. 

Bennington  is  divided  into  three  parts  ;  the  parishes  of  the 
hill  and  valley,  which  however  have  very  little  real  separation, 
and  a  considerable  village  which  lies  more  immediately  on 
the  river,  and  is  called  familiarly  by  the  inhabitants,  Algiers. 
This,  however,  it  must  be  owned,  is  an  opprobrious  appella- 
tion, endured  rather  than  acknowledged  by  the  residents 
there,  but  who,  to  say  the  truth,  were  in  general,  some  years 
ago,  not  much  distinguished  either  for  the  social  or  domestic 
virtues. 

I  spent  a  year  in  Bennington  when  quite  a  child,  and  the 


184 


PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 


recollections  of  that  period  are  preserved  with  a  vivid  distinct* 
ness,  which  often  causes  the  past  to  appear  but  the  memory 
of  yesterday.  It  was  my  delight  to  escape  from  my  home, 
which  was  in  the  highest  and  most  populous  part  of  the  town, 
and  wander  away  quite  alone,  through  grove,  over  field,  and 
meadow,  to  the  river  before  named ;  and  many  is  the  time  I 
have  adventurously,  in  the  dry  season,  crossed  on  the  stones 
that  were  hardly  above  the  lessening,  but  rapid  current — and 
many,  and  many  an  hour  have  I  sat  on  the  bank  watching 
the  swift  waters  when  the  freshets  were  up  after  the  rains, 
and  fancying  that,  with  my  little  strength,  I  might  victo- 
riously contend  with  the  water,  and  bring  from  the  opposite 
bank  the  beautiful  blue  flowers  rhodora  canadensis  to  twine 
with  the  violets  and  anemones,  which  I  could  gather  without 
crossing  the  stream.  I  had  always  a  love  for  the  wild 
scenery  of  nature — and  had  a  strange  enjoyment  in  spending 
whole  hours  alone  in  wandering  through  the  woods,  or  climb- 
ing rocky  heights,  that  I  should  now  hesitate  in  attempting 
to  surmount.  I  had  then  neither  brothers  nor  sisters — I  was 
at  home  without  any  companion,  and  my  predilection  for  so- 
litary pleasures  increased  in  proportion  as  I  was  thrown 
wholly  on  my  own  resources  for  amusements  ;  that  these  were 
not  always  well  chosen  I  am  now  very  sensible — but  I  feel 
that  my  situation  then  has  given  a  character  to  my  more  ma- 


PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 


185 


ture  years.  I  acquired  an  independence  and  determination 
which  have  been  invaluable  to  me  ;  and  indeed  I  trace  many 
of  my  governing-  principles  to  that  one  year  which  most  per- 
sons would  have  decided  to  be  wholly  lost  to  me  for  all  good 
purposes ; — for  1,  though  then  ten  years  of  age,  never  thought 
of  study,  and  doubt  if  I  twice  opened  a  book  for  the  whole 
twelve  months.  There  were  then  no  good  schools  in  the  vi- 
cinity, and  I  was  suffered  to  remain  at  home  in  the  anticipa- 
tion of  being  soon  sent  to  a  distant  seminary,  where  it  was 
hoped  all  deficiencies  would  be  well  supplied. 

I  now  feel  it  to  have  been  a  great  loss  that  so  long  a  pe- 
riod was  passed  without  any  knowledge  of  books  or  effort  at 
self-improvement,  and  my  following  studies  were  in  propor- 
tion difficult  of  attainment.  But  I  am  too  prolix,  and  must 
proceed  to  the  recital  of  a  tale  that  was  to  me  full  of  lively 
interest. 

One  warm  day  in  June,  I  left  home,  directing  my  way  to 
my  favorite  resort  by  the  river  ; — these  excursions  were  too 
frequent  to  occasion  any  surprise  in  the  family,  and,  indeed, 
a  day's  absence  would  hardly  have  afforded  a  source  of  alarm 
or  solicitude. 

I  had  not  been  long  near  my  favourite  bowering  tree,  be- 
fore I  espied  on  the  opposite  bank  a  beautiful  flower,  which 
was  no  sooner  seen  than,  in  fancy,  made  my  own.  The 

19 


186 


PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 


river  was  not  at  that  time  low  enough  for  me  to  find  all  the 
crossing  stones,  and  I  spent  an  hour  in  unsuccessful  attempts 
to  gain  a  safe  and  easy  passage ; — at  last,  weary  of  my  la- 
bour, I  determined  to  venture  where  I  knew  the  bed  was  most 
shallow,  and  trust  to  my  strength  to  resist  the  current. 

It  seems  that  I  counted  too  rashly  on  my  skill  and  power, 
for  I  had  just  reached  the  midway  stream  when  I  found  my- 
self yielding  to  the  impulse  of  the  eddy  round  a  large  rock ; — 
for  a  few  moments  I  struggled  against  the  waters,  but  all 
was  vain ;  and  the  last  thing  I  remember  was,  a  feeling  that 
I  should  drown,  what  trouble  I  should  occasion  my  friends, 
and  how  wrong  I  had  done  to  enter  the  river. 

When  I  recovered  my  senses  I  was  laying  on  a  low  bed,  in 
a  hut  humbly  furnished. 

An  aged  woman,  and  a  man  of  middle  years,  were  rub- 
bing my  limbs,  and  a  person,  the  sister  of  my  preserver,  was 
attempting  to  force  something  within  my  lips.  The  labourer 
had  seen  me  borne  down  by  the  current,  and  plunging  into 
the  water,  brought  me  out  just  in  time  to  save  my  life. 

I  cannot  describe  my  emotion : — my  various  feelings  at 
last  found  relief  in  a  violent  flood  of  tears ;  when  I  could 
speak  I  told  my  preservers,  in  reply  to  their  interrogations, 
who  I  was,  and  how  I  came  to  attempt  crossing  the  river ; 
and  I  remember  the  old  woman  exclaimed,  "  silly  child  ! — 


PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 


187 


and  just  to  pick  a  flower."  They  carried  me  home  when  I 
was  sufficiently  recovered,  and  wheie  of  course,  I  received 
the  admonition  which  my  rashness  deserved,  and  a  command 
not  to  attempt  the  ford  again,  which,  I  believe,  after  the  ex- 
perience of  that  day,  I  should  really  have  felt  little  disposi- 
tion to  do. 

I  was  often  allowed  to  visit  my  kind  friends  at  "  the  hut," 
as  it  was  there  called :  in  England  such  an  abode  would  be 
designated  "  a  cottage :"  in  Scotland  it  might  have  served 
as  the  original  of  one  of  Arthur  Austin's  (alias,  Wilson's) 
shealings." 

It  was  built  on  a  hill  of  considerable  elevation,  just  in  one 
of  those  little  sheltered  spots  which  we  so  often  see  in  our  coun- 
try, overhung  by  high  granite  rocks,  and  shaded  and  con- 
cealed still  more  by  several  large  trees,  which  had  resolutely 
thrust  their  strong  roots  between  the  fissures,  and  subsisted  in 
the  accumulated  soil  washed  down  by  the  rains. 

The  mother  of  this  family  often  entertained  me,  as  she  sat 
at  her  spinning  wheel,  with  strange  old  stories  of  events  that 
had  passed  in  her  younger  days ;  and  I,  with  an  inquisitive- 
ness  that  would  have  exhausted  the  good  humour  of  any  less 
patient  spirit  than  that  of  old  Hester,  asked  a  thousand  ques- 
tions, which  she,  in  her  good  nature,  never  declined  answering. 
But  she  would  spin  and  talk — talk  and  spin  without  tiring 


188 


PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 


the  live-long  day,  and  thankful  was  she,  I  do  believe,  to  win 
so  eager  a  listener  to  her  stories  of  11  olden  time." 

Her  husband  had  been  a  soldier  in  our  memorable  revolu- 
tion, and  had  fought  under  General  Starke  in  the  famous 
battle  of  Bennington,  where  he  had  signalized  himself  by  a 
steady  bravery,  which  gained  him  promotion,  and  the  confi- 
dence of  his  officers. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  old  Hester,  kindling  as  she  spoke  of  the 
heroic  valour  of  those  times,  "  men  were  men  then,  and  did 
not  shrink  from  peril  and  hardship  as  if  they  were  mere  babies ; 
— no,  nor  did  they  run  away  like  some  of  their  descendants 
in  the  last  war,  shame  be  to  them,  and  leave  their  houses  to 
be  burnt  to  the  ground,  and  their  families  to  leave  their  own 
homes  to  build  up  new  dwellings  ;  no,  they  fought  like  brave 
spirits,  and  though  many  fell  in  the  good  cause,  their  wives 
and  their  mothers  could  cherish  their  memory,  and  think  on 
them  with  pride  and  love. 

"Many  is  the  tear  that  I  have  shed,  little  one,"  she  would 
continue,  "  but  none  for  shame.  I  wept  for  the  sufferings  of 
my  country,  not  for  her  cowardice  : — no,  thank  heaven,  none 
of  mine  were  at  the  taking  of  Bladensburgh,  and  the  burning 
of  Washington." 

Hester  never  spoke,  as  she  never  felt,  cooly  on  this  topic, 
and  I  do  think  she  would,  with  all  her  unyielding  prejudices, 


PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 


189 


have  sooner  received  and  entertained  half  a  score  of  the  Bri- 
tish soldiery,  than  one  of  those  who  fled  from  our  capital  in 
the  time  of  its  danger  and  need.  Indeed,  she  could  never  be 
persuaded  to  give  much^credit  to  those  who  really  deserved 
praise  on  that  occasion. 

M  And  did  your  husband  die  in  the  wars  ?"  said  I,  one  day 
to  my  aged  friend.  "  No,"  answered  Hester,  "  rny  trial  was 
harder  than  that ;  though  to  have  lost  him  any  way  would 
have  been  grief  enough,  it  would  have  been  easier  to  have 
known  that  he  was  spent  in  defending  his  country,  than  that 
he  past  away  as  he  did." 

"  Oh,  do  tell  me  about  it,  if  you  can,"  said  I,  with  childish 
eagerness,  "tell  me  how  you  lost  him." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Hester,  "it  is  about  thirty  years  since 
I  followed  Abraham  to  the  grave. 

"  After  the  war  he  built  a  small  house  on  the  side  of  the 
mountain  yonder,  just  by  the  road  that  leads  across  to  Brat- 
tleborough :  it  was  then  a  bad  way,  and  was  called  through 
the  country  { the  Pass  of  the  Green  Mountains.' 

"  We  lived  there  for  some  years  in  peace  and  comfort,  sup- 
ported by  our  united  industry,  contented  with  little,  and  happy 
in  our  three  children.  Richard,  who  saved  you  from  drown- 
ing in  the  river,  was  our  oldest  child,  and  a  kind  good  boy 
has  he  been  all  his  life :  then  there  was  Margaret,  who  never 


190 


PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 


refused  to  work,  though  she  liked  play  as  well  as  any  girl ; 
and  little  Marcia,  who  was  always  full  of  laughter  and  frolic 
— though  she  has  grown  up  the  steady  woman  you  see  her 
now." 

"But  where  is  Margaret?"  said  I  interrupting  her.  "I 
have  never  seen  her  here." 

"  No,  she  is  married,  and  lives  at  Albany :  she  is  coming 
to  make  us  a  visit  next  year,  as  soon  as  Richard  gets  his  new 
house  finished  ;  for  now,"  said  she  looking  round,  "the  poor 
thing  would  not  have  room  to  rest  herself  with  her  two  chil- 
dren ; — she  has  named  them  for  her  brother  and  sister,  and 
a  good  manager  is  she  of  them." 

But  now  my  interest  returned  to  Abraham,  and  I  asked 
Hester  to  continue  her  first  narrative. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "we  lived  on  the  mountain  several  years, 
as  I  was  telling  you,  and  had  but  little  trouble,  all  things 
considered,  till  the  autumn  of  18 — .  The  season  came  in 
cold  and  early.  The  snow  was  deep  on  the  earth  in  No- 
vember, and  it  was  not  always  safe  to  cross  the  mountain, 
even  in  December.  My  husband  had  business  which  took 
him  often  to  Brattleborough ;  and  as  the  cold  increased,  I 
began  to  dread  his  going  from  home,  for  many  terrible  acci- 
dents had  already  happened  to  some  who  had  attempted  to 
cross  during  the  past  season. 


PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 


191 


tl  One  day  after  a  heavy  fall  of  snow,  I  saw  Abraham  pre- 
paring himself  for  going  over.  I  remonstrated,  but  he  said 
that  he  must  go,  and  that  there  was  no  danger,  for  the  wea- 
ther was  moderating,  and  he  should  be  home  the  next  day  by 
dark. 

"  I  saw  him  depart  with  a  heavy  heart,  but  I  tried  to  hope 
for  the  best,  and  busied  myself  about  the  house.  I  gave  the 
children  work  to  keep  them  employed  too,  but  they,  poor 
things,  felt  as  I  did  about  their  father,  and  would  go  full  often 
to  the  window  to  see  if  the  snow  had  ceased  falling,  or  the 
cold  grew  less. 

"  The  hours  wore  away  and  the  next  day  came.  Abra- 
ham could  not  be  expected  till  dark,  at  earliest,  and  the  wea- 
ther was  getting  more  and  more  severe,  though  snow  no 
longer  fell.  I  kept  my  fears  to  myself  as  well  as  I  could, 
and  the  children  often  diverted  my  thoughts  from  abroad. 
At  last  it  was  time  for  them  to  go  to  bed  ;  the  two  girls  were 
soon  asleep,  but  Richard  would  not  leave  me.  We  sat  by 
the  light  of  our  pine  knot  fire,  and  hour  after  hour  passed 
away,  yet  he  did  not  come  for  whom  we  so  anxiously 
watched.  It  was  late  at  night  when  a  loud  knock  at  the 
door  roused  every  fear  anew.  I  opened  it;  several  men  were 
there,  and  one  asked  if  this  was  the  house  of  Abraham 
Waldo.    I  said  i  yes — tell  me,  have  you  seen  him? 


192 


PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 


"He  left  Brattleborough,  said  the  tallest  man,  hesitatingly, 
three  hours  before  us,  but  the  storm  has  been  wild  on  the  top 
of  the  mountain,  and  now  the  cold  is  harder  than  I  have 
known  for  twenty  winters ;  saying  these  words  the  speaker 
entered  the  kitchen.  Come  in,  said  I  to  the  others,  do  not 
stand  there  to  perish. 

"  It  seemed  as  if  they  could  not  move,  and  then  I  thought, 
indeed,  that  my  husband  was  dead,  and  that  they  were  bear- 
ing him  home. 

"  It  was  even  so — they  entered  with  the  cold  and  stiffened 
body  of  Abraham,  and  laid  it  on  the  bed.  He  had  perished 
in  the  snows  on  the  mountain.  I  was  wild  with  grief;  but 
God  mercifully  gave  me  strength  to  bear  the  burden  which 
he  had  laid  upon  me,  and  in  a  few  hours  I  was  more  com- 
posed, recalled  in  part,  perhaps,  by  the  cries  of  my  poor  chil- 
dren. 

"  It  was  very  long  before  I  could  realize  the  extent  of  my 
loss: — death  had  entered  my  dwelling  when  he  was  not 
looked  for,  and  taken  away  the  support  of  our  house.  Oh, 
often  did  I  look  at  his  vacant  seat,  and  listen  in  vain  to  hear 
his  kind  voice  ;  but  I  see  that  all  things  have  been  ordered 
rightly ;  and  while  I  can  never  forget  the  husband  of  my 
youth,  I  have  great  cause  of  thankfulness  when  I  think  on 
the  years  of  happiness  which  we  had  together,  and  I  feel 


THE   WEEPING  MOTHER. 


PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 


193 


glad  that  the  joys  which  were  then  ours  were  never  inter- 
rupted by  idle  disputes  or  petty  differences.  My  husband, 
too,  was  a  Christian ;  and  was  prepared  for  his  sudden  end 
by  the  good  life  he  had  led.  I  knew  that  it  was  well  with 
him,  though  I  could  not  help  mourning  for  myself  and  chil- 
dren. One  day,  I  shall  never  forget  it,  while  I  was  overcome 
with  deep  grief,  and  my  Richard  had  been  out  trying  to  do 
some  little  work,  he  entered  and  saw  me  weeping,  and  when 
he  found  that  for  a  long  time  I  did  not  notice  either  him 
or  his  sisters,  he  tried  to  rouse  me  by  affectionate  expres. 
sions. 

" 1  Mother,  dear  mother,'  said  he,  entreatingly,  1  it  is  us, 
your  children;  we  will  comfort  you.' 

"  You  do  comfort  me,  said  I,  awakened  to  their  plead- 
ings, you  do  comfort  me,  and  I  will  give  you  a  better  ex- 
ample than  I  have  done:  you  shall  not  see  your  kind 
efforts  to  soothe  me  unregarded.  I  will  no  longer  neglect 
my  duty. 

"  As  for  Richard,  he  has  kept  his  word, — he  was  young 
when  his  father  died,  but  strong  and  active,  and  with  the 
help  of  our  neighbours  we  have  got  along  very  well.  Now 
he  is  more  than  forty  years  old — we  have  a  good  farm,  and 
a  house  just  finishing,  and  he  never  will  cease  to  take  care 
of  his  old  mother.    Marcia  keeps  house  for  him,  and  I  spin 

20 


194 


PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 


the  flax ;  we  shall  move  soon  to  our  comfortable  dwelling1, 
for  this,  as  you  see,  is  falling  away,  and  is  too  far  gone  for 
repair." 

Hester  was  silent ;  her  mind  was  relieved  by  speaking  of 
the  past,  even  though  to  a  child  too  young  to  appreciate  all 
she  said  ;  but  her  story  made  a  lasting  impression,  and  I  have 
related  it  as  one  of  the  many  instances  of  the  power  of  re- 
ligion to  sustain  the  mind  under  affliction, —  and,  as  another 
of  the  beautiful  examples  of  filial  duty  which  have  fallen 
under  my  notice.  No  one  can  doubt  the  happiness  of  Ri- 
chard:— all  must  admire  his  devotion  to  his  bereaved 
parent,  and  must  feel  that  an  affectionate  chdd  is  surely 
a  blessing  from  heaven,  even  as  he  is  blest  in  his  love  by 
heaven. 

I  remember  that  I  felt  very  thoughtful  after  Hester  had 
ended  her  conversation,  and  went  home  asking  myself  if  I 
were  ever  likely  to  be  a  comfort  to  my  parents  as  Richard, 
Margaret,  and  Marcia  had  been  to  theirs. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  Hester  should  have  spoken  so 
freely  to  me,  a  child,  or  that  her  story  should  have  made  so 
lasting  an  impression.  The  truth  is,  children  remember  every 
thing  that  strikes  their  imagination,  and  are  more  touched 
by  affecting  incidents  than  we  ordinarily  suppose.  I  had 
also  become  a  favourite  with  the  Waldos,  and  they  did  not 


PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 


195 


always  consider  my  age  when  they  sought  for  me  entertain- 
ment or  matters  of  interest. 

The  next  year,  early  in  March,  I  left  Bennington.  It 
was  a  very  cold  day,  and  the  roads  were  deep  in  snow ;  rain 
had  fallen  before  the  severity  of  the  weather  had  increased, 
and  incrusted  every  thing  in  ice. 

We  began  to  ascend  the  mountain  at  four  in  the  afternoon  : 
the  roads  were  difficult  and  dangerous:  we  were  all  wrapt 
in  furs,  but  those  imperfectly  protected  us  from  the  now  in- 
tense cold.  Our  horses  at  last  failed,  while  we  were  yet  some 
distance  from  the  highest  summit.  Fear  came  upon  all ;  and 
one  of  our  companions,  as  we  looked  out  on  the  dreary 
scene,  observed,  as  we  pointed  out  a  large,  bare  tree,  that 
stood  just  off  the  road,  that  near  that  place  many  persons 
had  perished  at  different  times  in  the  severe  seasons ;  "  five 
men,"  said  he,  "  froze  there  several  years  ago,  and  they  are 
not  the  only  ones  who  have  lain  them  down  there  despairing, 
never  to  rise."  I  thought  of  Abraham  Waldo,  and  felt  that 
perhaps  we  too  might,  like  him,  and  the  unfortunate  men 
just  spoken  of,  perish  from  cold  on  the  mountain; — but  Pro- 
vidence ordered  otherwise.  Our  horses  were  able  to  get  on 
as  far  as  the  first  inn,  and  we  arrived  at  Brattleborough  a 
few  hours  after  in  safety,  though  so  chilled  that  we  were 
obliged  to  defer  our  further  journey  till  milder  weather 


196 


PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 


This  found  us  in  a  few  days,  and  we  set  forward  rapidly  for 
our  destination.  I  can  never  forget  the  day.  It  was  one 
of  winter's  most  glorious  scenes,  the  trees  were  all  glit- 
tering with  ice:  the  whole  country,  far  and  wide,  was  wrapt 
in  snow,  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  which  was  almost  over- 
powering to  the  sight ;  but  a  poetic  mind  has  described  the 
scene  more  brightly  than  can  I,  and  I  give  you  the  abstract : 
if  you  have  known  and  admired  winter  scenery,  you  will* 
with  me,  attest  the  truth  and  beauty  of  these  lines  ; — 

"  Look,  the  massy  trunks 
Are  cased  in  the  pure  crystal ;  the  branch  and  twig 
Shine  in  the  lucid  covering ;  each  light  rod, 
Nodding  and  twinkling  in  the  stirring  breeze^ 
Is  studded  with  its  glittering  ice  drops. 

"  O  !  you  might  deem  the  spot 

The  spacious  cavern  of  some  virgin  mine, 

Deep  in  the  womb  of  earth,  where  the  gems  grow, 

And  diamonds  put  forth  radiant  rods,  and  bud 

With  amethyst  and  topaz,  and  the  place 

Lit  up  most  royally,  with  the  pure  beam 

That  dwells  in  them.    Raise  thine  eye  ; 

Thou  seest  no  cavern  roof — no  palace  vault? 

Here  the  blue  sky — and  the  white  drifting  cloud 

Look  in.  All,  all  is  light, 

Light  without  shade." 


PASS  OF  THE  GREEN  MOUNTAINS. 


197 


And  all  was  indeed  light  and  brightness  till  we  reached 
our  new  home ; — but  the  novel  and  various  scenes  through 
which  I  passed  there,  never  obliterated  from  my  memory 
the  story  of  Abraham  Waldo,  or  "  the  Pass  of  the  Green 
Mountains." 


198 


EPITAPH  EXTRAORDINARY. 

[A  clergyman  who,  till  his  recent  decease,  resided  on  his  living  in  Wiltshire, 
set  apart  a  space  in  his  orchard,  where  he  buried  the  domestic  animals  that 
had  lived  in  his  service.  Against  one  of  the  firs  which  overshadow  the 
spot  is  placed  the  following  inscription.] 

There  is  a  debt  of  gratitude  we  owe 

To  every  vigilant  and  faithful  slave ; 
And  therefore  doth  the  master  here  bestow 

'Upon  his  cats  and  dogs  a  common  grave : 

That  so  their  bones  inviolate  may  rest 

In  safe  and  undisturb'd  repose  together : 
Nor  e'er  be  made  a  prey  to  savage  beast, 

Nor  blown  about,  the  sport  of  winds  and  weather. 

Let  none  with  scorn  this  humble  care  survey ; 

But  recollect,  proud  man!  that  gift  divine, 
The  gift  of  life,  which  once  inform'd  their  clay, 

From  the  same  heavenly  Fountain  flow'd  as  thine. 

W.  C. 


199 


THE  BEREAVED  PARENT. 

AN  ENIGMA. 

Start  not  amiable  and  compassionate  children,  when  I 
tell  you  that  I  am  a  despised  and  ill  treated  parent !  Not  by 
my  own  children:  no,  that  pang  is  spared  me,  for  they  are 
torn  from  me  before  they  are  sensible  of  a  mother's  love.  But 
the  w^orld,  the  whole  world,  treats  me  with  barbarous  cruelty  ! 

No  sooner  am  I  known  to  be  a  parent,  than  all  my  off- 
spring are  wrested  from  me. 

Should  I  conceal  myself  in  the  deepest  cave,  or  wander  to 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  sea,  I  am  discovered,  and  robbed 
of  my  treasures. 

I  can  say  of  my  children,  with  more  truth  than  Cornelia, 
the  mother  of  the  Gracchi,  "  These  are  my  only  jewels!"  for 
they  are  worthy  of  a  crown  !  Indeed,  many  of  my  offspring, 
by  their  brilliant  virtues,  have  added  lustre  to  the  most  splen- 
did diadems  of  the  East !  They  are  fair,  very  fair  ;  and  their 
intrinsic  worth  is  equal  to  their  beauty.  Mosl  justly  do  they 
serve  as  the  standard  of  excellence,  by  which,  all  that  is 


200 


THE  BEREAVED  PARENT. 


good  and  beautiful  are  compared.  Their  chief  merit,  how- 
ever, consists  in  the  good  impression  I  make  of  them  in  their 
infancy,  and  their  beauty  is  but  "  reflection  caught  from  me  P1 

"Far  be  it  from  me  to  complain  of  my  children's  neglect. 
They,  poor  things,  never  knew  their  parent !  but  acutely  do 
I  feel  the  base  conduct  of  those  who  violently  seize  on  my 
offspring,  and  pay  no  debt  of  gratitude  to  me. 

As  I  have  before  inferred,  my  children  are  placed  in  the 
highest  rank  of  society.  They  are  much  admired  ;  and 
such  is  the  folly  to  which  fashion  leads,  they  are  imitated 
even  to  their  very  defects.  Although  they  give  pleasure  to 
others,  yet,  strange  to  say,  they  know  not  what  true  happi- 
ness is.  Sometimes  they  are  clothed  in  gold,  and  adorned 
with  rubies, — often  are  they  imprisoned,  though  innocent, — 
and  frequently  are  they  put  in  chains,  though  guilty  of  no 
offence.  They  have  been  present  at  the  most  sumptuous  feasts ; 
and  one  of  the  finest  of  my  family  was  drowned  in  a  cup,  in 
tyrannical  sport,  at  the  luxuriant  banquet  of  a  noble  Roman 
and  wicked  Egyptian  Empress  ! 

Gentle  Reader,  what  is  my  name  1 


CHI!LiBHO©»  . 


201 


CHILDHOOD. 

In  stern  misfortune's  hour, 
When  wildly  blows  the  blast, 
And  gloomy  shadows  lour, 
And  every  hope's  o'ercast ; 
Then  sweet  is  childhood's  smile 
To  the  desponding  heart; 
Our  griefs  it  can  beguile, 
And  bid  all  care  depart. 

The  fleecy  clouds  that  gleam 

Across  the  azure  sky, 

The  silver  murmuring  stream 

That  ripples  softly  by, 

Are  beauteous  ;  but  the  smile 

Of  joyous  infancy 

Comes  o'er  the  heart,  the  while, 

Like  sunset  o'er  the  sea. 


202 


CHILDHOOD. 


The  wanderer  cannot  rest 
Where  e'er  his  footsteps  roam, 
Till  childhood's  happy  glee 
Welcomes  the  weary  home. 
O,  could  I  feel  once  more 
Its  stainless  parity, 
I'd  never  leave  life's  shore, 
To  tempt  ambition's  sea. 


203 


THE  BROKEN  PITCHER. 


By  Richard  Howitt. 


I. 

Now,  Harry,  mother  looks,  to  see 
Why  we  do  make  this  sad  delay  ; 

And  yet  you  will  not  speak  to  me, 
Nor  will  you  come  for  all  I  say. 

ii. 

I  laughed — 't  is  true — and  who  would  not? 

To  see  you,  with  a  rueful  face, 
Start  up,  and  take  that  piece  of  pot, 

And  put  it  on  the  broken  place ! 

rn. 

And  then  to  see  how  long  you  tried, 
If  that  would  make  it  whole,  in  vain  j 

I  must  have  laughed,  if  I  had  died, 
But  did  not  mean  to  give  you  pain. 


204 


THE  BROKEN  PITCHER. 


TV. 

Though  mother  cry,  "you  clumsy  youth  !,J 
And  though  she  seem  so  very  cross, 

Yet,  if  you  tell  the  simple  truth, 
She  will  not  much  regard  the  loss. 

v. 

I'm  very  sorry,  I  am  sure, — 

And  now  would  bear  the  blame  for  you ; 
But  father  always  says,  though  poor, 

We  nothing  wrong  must  say  or  do. 

VI. 

For  were  I  now  to  say  I  did  it, 

The  conscious  fib  would  flush  my  cheek; 
And  though  my  heart  would  not  forbid  it, 

My  face  would  still  most  truly  speak. 

VII. 

Now,  mother  looks  again,  to  see 
Why  thus  we  linger  on  the  way ; 

And  still  you  will  not  speak  to  me, 
Nor  will  you  come  for  all  I  say ! 


205 


DOMESTIC  CHIT-CHAT? 

OR, 

A  WORD  TO  THE  INJURED. 


By  Mrs.  Hofland, 


Consideration,  like  an  angel  came 

And  whiptthe  offending  Adam  out  of  him. — Shakspeare, 

"  I  wonder,  Emma,  that  you  can  take  so  much  pleasure 
in  playing  with  that  kitten,"  said  Hugh  Pembroke  to  his  sis- 
ter :  "  though  you  are  very  young,  and  only  a  girl,  I  should 
think  that  you  might  amuse  yourself  with  better  toys  than  a 
cork,  a  string,  and  a  cat." 

"And /wonder  that  j^ou  can  think  any  toy  comparable 
to  my  pretty  kitten.  Twist  and  turn  as  she  may,  all  her 
motions  are  more  graceful  and  agile  than  those  of  a  stage- 
dancer.  And  what  a  very  funny  look  she  has !  There  is  a 
poet  who  says,  somewhere, 

'You  who  can  smile,  (to  wisdom  no  disgrace) 
At  the  arch  meaning  of  a  kitten's  face,' 


206 


domestic  chit-chat:  or 


I  dare  say  he  had  gazed,  like  me,  with  pleasure,  at  a  kitten's 
droll  looks,  Hugh ;  though,  I  suppose,  he  was  not  very  young, 
and  certainly  not  a  girlP 

"Clever  folks  have  foolish  fancies,  sometimes,  but  almost 
every  body  dislikes  cats,  because  they  are  treacherous,  cun- 
ning, deceitful  things.  Besides,  they  are  very  stupid  ;  you 
cannot  teach  a  cat  any  thing.  Dogs,  horses,  and  even  pigs, 
may  be  taught  tricks  of  some  kind,  by  which  they  evince 
ability,  or  display  affection,  but  a  cat  learns  nothing,  cares 
for  nobody.  She  is  a  handsome  animal,  I  grant,  and  some- 
times useful,  but  that  does  not  prevent  her  from  being  hateful, 
— a  tetotum,  at  best,  in  her  kittenhood,  and  a  humming  top  for 
the  rest  of  life.  Now,  a  dog  is  a  noble  animal, — brave,  sin- 
cere, sensible,  and  affectionate.    I  do  love  a  dog  dearly.' 

Hugh  spoke  not  only  volubly,  but  loudly ;  as  if  by  the 
sound,  not  less  than  the  truth,  of  his  assertions,  he  would  si- 
lence all  opposition  to  his  opinion ;  and  Emma,  conscious 
that  she  knew  little  on  the  subject  of  animals  beyond  her  ad- 
miration of  pussy,  could  not  immediately  reply :  but  in  a 
short  time,  she  discarded  the  favourite,  and,  addressing  her 
aunt,  who  was  quietly  seated  at  her  work,  inquired  "  if  it 
were  not  possible  for  a  cat  to  be  worth  liking  as  well  as  a  dog?n 

"  Very  possible,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Annesley;  "be- 
cause many  persons  do  like  them  as  well" 


A  WORD  TO  THE  INJURED. 


207 


"  Many  women,  perhaps,"  said  Hugh  sullenly,  "  more  espe- 
cially old  maids."  A  witch  is  always  represented  with  a 
black  cat  at  her  elbow." 

"  Do  you  class  your  papa's  friend,  Mr.  H  ,  among  such 

persons  ?" 

"Oh  !  no  ;  he  is  a  fine,  lively,  soldier-like  kind  of  a  man." 

"  Yet,  when  sitting  at  rest  in  his  parlour,  you  will  gene- 
rally find  him  with  a  large  old  cat  on  his  knee,  which,  during 
breakfast,  may  be  seen  begging  for  toast  beside  him,  as  your 
little  terrier  does ;  a  proof  that  cats  may  be  taught  as  well  as 
dogs,  though  it  is  certain  they  are  by  no  means  equally  intel- 
ligent." 

"  I  remember  that,  certainly,"  said  Hugh,  looking  a  little 
ashamed,  and  half  convinced,  as  he  took  a  chair  opposite  to 
his  aunt,  with  an  air  that  said  he  had  been  too  hasty  in  his 
judgment. 

"  If,"  continued  his  excellent  relative,  "  we  require  from 
animals  qualities  or  talents  which  nature  has  denied  them, 
we  prove  ourselves  either  unreasonable  or  ignorant.  We  do 
not  expect  a  donkey  to  fetch  and  carry  like  a  poodle,  nor  a 
cow  to  crack  nuts  like  a  squirrel ;  yet  no  one  will  refuse  good 
will  towards  two  animals  so  singularly  beneficial  to  man." 

"  That  is  very  true;  but  I  spoke  of  disposition,  aunt.  Now, 
cats  are — " 


208 


DOMESTIC  CHIT-CHAT  J  OR, 


Hugh  paused,  and  Mrs.  Annesley  waited  in  patience  for 
him  to  proceed ;  but  seeing  he  did  not,  she  resumed  her  dis- 
course. 

"  Cats  are  a  very  malign  race.  I  never  knew  a  vulgar 
boy,  nor  one  of  a  ferocious  disposition,  who  did  not  calumni- 
ate them,  as  an  excuse  for  his  own  occasional  cruelty  towards 
them." 

Hugh  was  really  a  well  informed  boy,  and  of  a  good  dis- 
position ;  and  he  was  also  particularly  alive  to  his  claims  as 
a  gentleman ;  these  words,  therefore,  struck  him  as  insulting 
and  unjust;  and  his  cheek  glowed  with  indignation,  while 
yet  a  deep  sense  of  sorrow,  from  the  consciousness  of  having 
been  the  first  aggressor,  quivered  his  lip,  and  rendered  him 
agitated  and  fidgetty. 

Hugh  did  not  immediately  answer ;  but  at  length  he  said, 
—  "  I  do  think,  dear  aunt,  and  I  am  convinced,  with  you,  that 
cats  have  been  cruelly  belied.  I  must  say  that  old  Tabby 
does  make  a  great  piece  of  work  whenever  Mr.  Holland  comes 
here,  just  as  if  she  remembered  being  a  kitten  at  his  house, 
going  round  and  round  his  chair,  purring  so  loud  as  to  com- 
pel him  to  notice  her.  I  have  remarked  this  frequently,"  said 
Hugh. 

"  So  have  I ;  and  Tabby's  kitten  showed  me  just  the  same 
kind  of  attention,  when  I  called  at  Mrs.  S.'s  last  week;  though 


A  WORD  TO  THE  INJURED. 


209 


I  had  entirely  forgotten  the  circumstance  of  her  going  from 
our  house  until  reminded  of  it  by  her  present  mistress.  The 
most  remarkable  attachment,  however,  of  which  I  have  been 
the  object,  was  that  of  a  very  fine  young  cat,  which  was  cru. 
elly  shot  in  the  back  by  some  young  boys,  misnamed  gentle- 
men.  The  poor  creature  was  in  the  habit  of  jumping  in  at  the 
window,  after  returning  from  a  course  of  visits  which  he  paid 
daily  to  his  neighbours.    On  returning  after  his  accident,  he 
mewed  very  pitifully;  but,  having  no  idea  of  his  mishap,  I 
did  not  open  the  door,  and  of  course  he  was  compelled  to  jump 
through  the  open  window  as  usual.    He  did  so,  and  sank  at 
my  feet,  bleeding  and  writhing  in  agony.*' 
"  How  sorry  you  must  have  been,  dear  aunt !" 
"  Indeed  I  was,  Hugh,  and  regretted  particularly  that  I 
had  not  attended  to  his  plaintive  cry ;  for,  though  not  given 
to  fondling  animals,  I  trust  I  pity  all  their  sufferings.  Well, 
I  took  poor  Tom  on  my  lap,  examined  his  injuries,  and 
washed  his  bleeding  wounds  with  warm  milk  and  water,  as 
tenderly  as  I  could  ;  yet  I  undoubtedly  gave  him  much  pain 
which  he  bore  heroically,  and  even  tried  to  purr  his  thanks 
f*>r  my  attention.    For  several  weeks  the  wretched  animal 
suffered  so  much,  that  the  entrance  of  a  servant  almost  con- 
vulsed him  with  terror  lest  he  should  touch  him;  yet  never 
was  he  called  by  your  dear  uncle  or  myself  to  have  his  wounds 

21 


210 


DOMESTIC  CHIT-CHAT  ;  OR, 


dressed,  but  he  would  instantly  come,  and,  by  a  painful  effort, 
jump  on  our  knees,  and  faintly  purr  his  thanks.  Surely  this 
indicated  confidence  and  gratitude,  in  no  slight  degree,  and 
intelligence  also." 

"  Undoubtedly.  Pray  what  became  of  him  ?  was  he  any 
of  the  cats  I  can  remember  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear,  for  you  were  a  very  little  boy ;  but  Tom 
was  so  fond  of  you,  that  he  permitted  you  to  stroke  him  even 
when  he  had  two  shots  as  large  as  peas  in  his  back.  I  wish 
you  had  been  as  well  able  to  defend  him  as  you  arc  now ; 
for,  by  keeping  a  sharp  lookout,  he  might  have  been  saved 
from  a  second  attack,  which  lost  me  an  attached  animal  of 
singular  beauty  and  great  utility." 

"I  wish  I  had  been  a  great  boy  then;  yes,  that  I  do:  I 
would  have  taught  those  young  scoundrels  another  lesson.  I 
can't  conceive  how  they  dared  to  touch  any  property  of 
ours." 

"  Especially  a  poor  innocent  cat  that  had  suffered  so 
much,"  cried  Emma,  almost  in  tears. 

"  Probably  they  disliked  cats,  and  despised  women:  igno- 
rant persons  are  subject  to  prejudices." 

Hugh's  colour  rose  again;  but  he  subdued  his  emotion, 
being,  indeed,  truly  grateful  to  the  kind  friend  who  at  once 
reproved  and  instructed  him,  yet  spared  his  feelings,  and 


A  WORD  TO  THE  INJURED. 


211 


amused  him  by  narratives  which  awakened  his  best  emo- 
tions. He,  therefore,  eagerly  inquired  "  if  she  could  give  him 
more  anecdotes  of  cats." 

"  The  late  Dr.  Jackson,  of  Hanover-square,  had  a  very 
large,  beautiful  cat,  remarkable  for  its  docility  and  affection 
for  its  master,  v/hich  he  called  Tippoo,  and  which  many  of 
his  friends  remember,  I  am  certain.  Daring  the  worthy  phy- 
sician's last  illness,  he  was  confined  several  months  to  his 
bedroom,  during  which  time  Tippoo  never  left  him  more  than 
a  few  minutes;  but  constantly  tried,  by  every  endearment  in 
his  power,  to  testify  affection.  When  all  was  over,  he  still 
kept  his  post,  except  at  his  usual  time  of  descending  for  food  ; 
but  from  the  time  the  corpse  was  removed,  all  energy  forsook 
him.  He  tasted  nothing  that  could  be  offered,  permitted  no 
one  to  caress  him,  and  pined  so  rapidly  that,  in  a  fortnight, 
Mrs.  Jackson  told  me,  his  skin  hung  on  a  bag  of  bones  ;  and, 
within  three  weeks,  Tippoo  died  literally  of  grief  for  the  loss 
of  his  master." 

Hugh  breathed  a  deep  sigh,  and  his  aunt  continued. 

"  During  the  last  period  of  your  absence,  I  had  myself  an 
extraordinary,  I  might  say,  an  affecting  instance  of  recog- 
nition in  a  cat.  You  remember  old  Bess,  the  tortoise-shell 
cat?" 

11  Oh  yes,  whenever  she  caught  a  rat,  she  brought  it  to 


212 


DOMESTIC  CHIT-CHAT  J  OR, 


you,  and  laid  it  down  by  you,  and  would  wait  ever  so  long 
for  you." 

"  Yes,  she  paid  me  that  compliment  for  years ;  but  last 
winter  she  grew  very  old,  and  though  loth  to  resign  her  place 
on  the  rug,  finally  took  up  her  abode  in  a  basket  on  the 
kitchen  hearth,  cook  being  very  kind  to  her.  Your  uncle 
frequently  visited  her  there ;  and  she  always  testified  great 
pleasure  on  hearing  his  foot  approach.  One  day  he  said  to 
me,  1  My  dear,  poor  old  Bess  is  dying :  you  had  better  go 
and  see  her  ;  for  she  will  never  move  again.''  Just  as  he 
spoke  the  poor  creature  entered  the  room*  and,  though  nearly 
blind,  made  up  to  my  seat  as  well  as  she  was  able;  and,  on 
my  taking  her  up,  she  tried,  but  in  vain,  to  purr.  Finding 
her  tremble  all  over,  I  carried  her  down  to  lay  her  in  the 
warm  basket ;  but  the  moment  I  had  done  so,  she  crawled 
out  to  the  beer  cellar,  where,  in  another  instant,  she  was 
stretched  out  dead  :  the  poor  thing  had  crept  up  to  visit  me 
in  her  last  agonies." 

"  She  was  the  best  tempered  creature  in  the  world.  I  al- 
ways liked  that  cat  myself,  exceedingly.  She  had  a  great 
deal  of  sense,  too." 

"  The  most  remarkable  circumstance  I  have  ever  known, 
respecting  cats,  will  conclude  the  subject:  it  is  this: — 

"  The  two  Misses  Walker,  of  Leeds,  had  a  favourite  tabby, 


A  WORD  TO  THE  INJURED. 


213 


which  more  particularly  attached  itself  to  the  elder,  who  kept 
her  bed  a  year  or  two.  On  the  death  of  this  lady,  her  sister 
(who  was  also  a  confirmed  invalid)  removed  to  the  house  of 
a  relation  above  thirty  miles  distant,  taking  with  her  the  cat 
in  question,  which  was,  in  the  hurry  of  arrival,  soon  lost,  to 
her  vexation  you  may  be  certain.  About  a  fortnight  after- 
wards she  received  a  letter  from  an  old  neighbour,  informing 
her  that  the  cat  was  then  in  the  area  of  her  late  habitation  in 
Park  Square,  and  could  not  be  allured  thence,  though  in  a 
state  of  starvation. 

I  "  On  learning  this,  her  own  maid  was  sent  to  Leeds;  and 
the  cat,  recognizing  her,  crept  out  to  her,  and  was  reconveyed 
to  her  mistress,  though  reduced  to  a  skeleton.  In  a  short  time 
she  was  quite  happy  in  her  new  home,  and  seemed  gratefully 
to  accept  of  her  present  mistress  in  lieu  of  the  one  to  whom 
she  had  hitherto  belonged ;  and  when  she  too  was  taken,  at- 
tached herself  to  Mrs.  Smith,  the  head  of  the  family.  How 
a  creature,  never  fifty  yards  out  of  the  house,  succeeded  in 
finding  her  way  through  varied  roads  in  a  populous  country, 
I  cannot  imagine ;  but  the  fact  is  undeniable,  and  bespeaks 
an  instinct,  as  well  as  an  affection,  beyond  what  cats  have 
credit  for  possessing." 

•l  Dear  aunt,"  said  Hugh,  "  I  am  more  obliged  to  you  than 
I  can  express,  for  taking  the  trouble  of  convincing  me  instead 


214 


DOMESTIC  CHIT-CHAT. 


of  scolding  me.  I  never  will  despise  cats  again,  nor  any 
other  creature :  for  they  are  all  the  works  of  the  Almighty, 
who  has  made  nothing  in  vain  :  and  I  am  determined  that  I 
will  study  natural  history,  both  in  the  works  of  that  good 
and  great  man,  Baron  Cuvier,  and  also  in  the  subjects  them- 
selves, so  far  as  I  am  able." 

"And  will  you,  then,  love  my  kitten'?"  said  little  Emma, 
climbing  on  his  knee. 

"Most  probably,"  replied  Hugh,  as  he  tenderly  kissed  her; 
"  for  I  do  love  the  kittten's  mistress  dearly,  (as  well  I  may,) 
though  I  was  foolish  enough  to  call  her  only  a  little  girl.* 

"  I  had  forgotten  that  entirely,  dear  Hugh." 

"  I  believe  you,  my  love;  but  I  shall  neither  forget  nor  for 
give  myself  soon,  I  promise  you." 


215 


LINES. 


By  Miss  J.  E,  Roscoe. 


Go  forth  when  midnight  winds  are  high, 
And  ask  them  whence  they  come ; 

Who  sent  them  raging  thro'  the  sky, 
And  where  is  their  far  home ! 

Ask  of  the  tempest,  if  its  bound 

Is  flx'd  in  Heav'ns  decree, 
When  storm  arid  thunders  burst  around 

In  awful  revelry. 

The  winds  may  keep  their  midnight  way, 

Tile  tempest  know  its  power, 
But  trembling  mortal,  canst  thou  say 

Where  ends  thy  destined  hour? 


6 


LINES. 


Whence  didst  thou  spring,  and  whither  tend  % 

Is  thine  this  atom  world  ? 
What  is  thj  being's  aim  and  end, 

On  Time's  swift  pinion  hurl'd? 

Thou  know' st  not — no,  thou  may'st  not  know — 

But  read  that  glorious  sky, — 
Look  up  !  those  million  planets  glow 

With  marks  of  Deity  ! 

Yes,  trace  him  there — exulting  trace  ! 

The  soul  that  soars  to  God, 
And  follows  the  immortal  race 

Those  shining  stars  have  trod, — 

Can  never  falter  in  its  faith, 

Can  never  bow  to  fears : 
The  conquest  over  Time  and  Death, 

It  reads  in  j>on  bright  spheres ! 


FINIS. 


